


I So Liked Spring

by KMWells



Series: The Darcy Potter Series [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Darcy Finally Finds A Home, Death, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Friendship, Grief, Harry Potter Has a Sibling, Harry has a sister, Jealousy, Loss, Order of the Phoenix - Freeform, Pining, Strong Father Figures, The Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter) is Terrible, War, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-07-27 20:56:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 66
Words: 444,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16227170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KMWells/pseuds/KMWells
Summary: Darcy Potter returns to Hogwarts with the bitter knowledge that life is finite and Voldemort is out for her brother’s blood. With a little help from her friends, Darcy finds that activism suits her, realizing too late the consequences of her outspokenness. Between spending much of her time face to face with the man she still pines after, finding her place with a real family, and working to bring her ideas to the world, Darcy soon finds herself at odds with the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and the Ministry of Magic, finding an unlikely ally along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

‘I so liked Spring last year  
Because you were here; –  
The thrushes too –  
Because it was these you so liked to hear –  
I so liked you.

This year’s a different thing, –  
I’ll not think of you.  
But I’ll like the Spring because it is simply Spring  
As the thrushes do.‘

 _I So Liked Spring_ , Charlotte Mew

* * *

Of course, during the hottest summer Darcy’s ever known, Aunt Petunia decides to completely redo the garden.

Not that Darcy really minds the work—she’s always enjoyed helping tend the garden, plus Aunt Petunia had let her help pick out flowers and choose what colors to use. And there’s something about having soil and dirt under her nails and sweat dripping down her face and aching knees that makes Darcy feel somewhat at peace. The sunshine feels good after locking herself in her room most of the time, and she has a reason to be proud of herself when she takes a step back to admire her and Aunt Petunia’s work. The one drawback is that the blazing sun makes her fair skin burn and blister painfully, making it uncomfortable to wear clothes or sleep or even move sometimes. But in the garden, neither Vernon or Dudley aren’t around to bother her, and sometimes Aunt Petunia lets Darcy drink lemonade with her under the cool refuge of a shady tree. Aunt Petunia is very knowledgeable about flowers, and she tells Darcy choice gossip about the neighbors—someone’s son had been caught smoking out his bedroom window a few days past, the woman a few doors down has filed for divorce with her husband after catching him in bed with his secretary, and one of their neighbor’s daughters was politely asked to find a new school after she’d bullied multiple girls into not coming back. Darcy is vaguely familiar with the girl, and believes it wholeheartedly.

And, perhaps best of all about gardening—it keeps her mind off things. Anything to keep her awake, to keep her from slipping into nightmares consisting of Cedric’s surprised expression—handsome, shocked, dirty, and dead; her mother’s beautiful, vacant face; Mrs. Duncan’s cold, unseeing eyes upon a shock-white face. She sees Barty Crouch Junior in her dreams too, sees Moody’s scarred face turning into one much more malicious, younger and wicked, and Peter Pettigrew, the vile rodent he is. Sometimes she dreams of Lupin, and in them he’s touching her and kissing her, and when Darcy wakes from these dreams, she feels very lonely in her bed and very cold and her fingers always twitch, looking for a hand to hold. And sometimes, she even dreams of her father, but he always turns into her mother dropping to the floor after a flash of green light. Darcy always wakes immediately afterwards, disappointed she hadn’t even dreamed of Sirius.

Most nights, she can hear Harry in his bedroom across the hall, muttering into his pillow about Cedric, calling out for mum and dad in his sleep, tossing and turning in his bed. Only once had he slipped into her bedroom, just like he used to do when he was little and had woken from a strange and muddled dream, seeking comfort from his sister. They’d slept on the floor together, far too old to share a twin bed, but it had been nice to sleep next to someone, even if it was just Harry. And she’s glad that Harry is polite enough not to bring up Darcy’s nightmares; she takes his lead, not bringing up his no matter how badly she wants to.

In fact, Harry rarely does any talking at all lately, and when he does, he’s short and curt and cold with her. Darcy can’t blame him, but it’s hard to let her brother know she’s here for him to talk to when Harry dismisses her as overbearing for the most part. She knows that he’s getting antsy staying inside, and though Darcy urges him to stay at the house, she doesn’t protest when he occasionally walks to the nearby playground alone, or does a circle around the neighborhood. His words hurt her feelings, but she accepts them and doesn’t argue, hoping that shouting at her will make Harry feel better in the long run.

And she isn’t sure if it’s just paranoia after everything that’s happened in the past year, but Darcy sometimes feels as if she’s being watched. Sometimes, even when she’s just sitting in the backyard, soaking up the sun and reading a book, she feels eyes on the back of her head and the hair on her arms and the back of her neck stands up. She still hasn’t caught anyone watching, but the feeling makes her uncomfortable enough. Darcy always wonders if Voldemort knows they’re at Privet Drive, and whenever a streetlight goes out, or there’s a rustling in a hedge, she half expects Death Eaters to jump out and kill her without warning. At night, Darcy fears looking out her window, afraid she’ll find a few hooded figures walking down the street, searching for her and her brother. Once, she’d heard a loud _CRACK_! and the noise scared her so much, she’d pulled her wand out in view of Petunia, her chest heaving. Aunt Petunia had convinced her warily it was only a backfiring car and hissed at her about her wand until she was red in the face, but Darcy only half-believed her.

Max comes and goes as he pleases, keeping her company during the day, even when he just sleeps. Vernon had given her a thump on the back of the head upon finding out Darcy allows Max out of his cage in her bedroom, but she hates seeing him in his cage. But, unfortunately, tonight he’ll be gone, off sending a letter to Sirius. Darcy had been too afraid to send any letters to Gemma, for fear that her parents would read them or someone far worse would get their hands on them. And as much as she she wants to write to Lupin just for reassurance that everything would be all right, she had refrained. She doesn’t want to come across as pathetic and pining—desperate. Darcy had been in half a mind to write to Hermione or Mr. Weasley, just for _someone_ to correspond to, but she’d wanted to write to Sirius first. Not that she really knows her godfather all that well, but she has a hard time believing he wouldn’t respond to a desperate letter begging for someone to rescue her.

“Mrs. Dursley!”

Darcy and Aunt Petunia look over their shoulders at the sound of bicycle tires sliding to a stop on the gravelly sidewalk. A tall, strapping boy leans his thin bike against the fence that encircles the front yard, letting himself in. Darcy thinks he looks half familiar, but can’t place him. She looks him over as he approaches Aunt Petunia with a smile, revealing dazzling white teeth. Both women get to their feet; Aunt Petunia takes her gloves off, but Darcy claps the dirt off her bare hands.

“My aunt said to come say hello,” he says, wrapping Aunt Petunia in a warm hug. Darcy thinks it’s an odd scene, having never seen her hug anyone besides Dudley, and even then, Dudley’s always squirming in her thin arms. “I’ve come to visit for the summer.”

“How you’ve grown!” Aunt Petunia says, holding him at arm's length and inspecting him critically. “You’ve finished at Eton, then? How long has it been?”

“I’ve been finished with Eton for years,” the boy replies, laughing and pushing his golden hair out of his eyes. Up close, the boy is barely taller than Darcy is. “I’m returning for my last year at Cambridge this fall.”

“What are you studying?” The way Aunt Petunia asks him, Darcy imagines a lot is hanging on his answer.

“Law,” he answers, quite humbly, and still smiling.

“There’s a good boy.” For the boy’s sake, Darcy is glad Aunt Petunia is pleased with his career choice. “You remember my niece? Darcy, do you remember Gavin?”

“It’s been a while,” Gavin says, holding out a hand to Darcy. She brushes the excess dirt off her palm on the front of her shirt, which she realizes too late displeases her aunt, but Gavin shakes her hand all the same. “You look, er—you’ve grown. I think the last time I saw you, you and your brother were running around stark naked and swimming in the creek.”

Aunt Petunia purses her lips, fighting the urge to say something nasty about Harry and the situation, no doubt. But the memory makes Darcy remember the boy with a start—Gavin Coldwell. She’d been maybe six or seven at the time, as Harry had barely been able to hold a full conversation, and Gavin had just barely been a teenager. He’d been riding by the creek on his bike, and he’d laughed as Darcy splashed him, yelling at him to go away. But the young Gavin she remembers had been slightly heavier—perhaps not as heavy as Dudley, or even half as heavy as Dudley—but his face had been round and flushed, and his hair had always been cut short. Though he had been nice to her, if not annoying at times. He often visited over weekends that he was able to get away from Eton, and he’d tease her and tickle her all in good fun when he’d see her at the playground she frequented, always sneaking her and Harry candy and other small treats. Sometimes his aunt would bring him by for tea with Aunt Petunia, and he’d always pull funny faces while she read them poetry.

This Gavin Coldwell is handsome—so handsome that looking at him makes Darcy’s cheeks pink. His shoulders and neck are thick with muscle, and Darcy imagines that under his clothes, he’s muscular, as well. Gavin is cleanly shaven, giving his face a boyish youthfulness to it, though Darcy thinks he’d look ten years older and slightly more handsome with a beard. Aunt Petunia told Darcy long ago that Gavin’s family came from old money and lived in an estate in Beaconsfield, which one day would be his, and while Darcy hasn’t met many extremely wealthy people being cooped up at Privet Drive for many years, she has to admit that Gavin looks wealthy—the way he dresses, the expensive bike leaning against the fence, the easy confidence and natural good looks.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Darcy chuckles, burning with embarrassment at the idea that Gavin remembers her as a dirty, naked girl swimming in the creek. “Not my finest moment, but an honest one. Please don’t hold it against me.”

This makes Gavin smile, his pale green eyes glittering in the sun. At the right angle, with the sun hitting his golden hair, the sight of him takes her breath away. Darcy wonders what it would feel like to be so beautiful.

Aunt Petunia clears her throat. “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?” she asks sweetly, giving Darcy a sideways look. “I’ll have Darcy wash up and put a kettle on to boil. I’m sure I could find some leftover biscuits from yesterday, if you don’t mind.”

“A very kind and tempting offer, Mrs. Dursley,” Gavin smiles, giving Darcy a sideways glance. “However, I’m due for tea with Mrs. Nace in about fifteen minutes and I’m afraid I’ve already taken up too much of your time. Tell Vernon I said hello, would you?”

“Come by for supper one evening. Vernon would be delighted to see you.” Aunt Petunia receives a kiss on the cheek from Gavin, making Darcy frown. She hastily rearranges her features before anyone can see her face.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been here, but it all seems very much the same, doesn’t it? I used to enjoy summers here,” Gavin explains, smiling kindly at Darcy. “Mum and dad are on holiday at the moment, and it’s quite lonely at the house without them.” Before he turns to leave, he touches his left cheek, chuckling at Darcy. “You’ve got some dirt there, on your cheek.”

As Gavin mounts his bicycle and goes to leave, he turns and waves to Darcy. Aunt Petunia can’t seem to make up her mind—she looks stuck, on the verge of telling Darcy off for watching him go so intently, but the other half of her (if Darcy knows Aunt Petunia’s intentions—which she thinks she does) probably would be happy to have Darcy run after him, begging him to marry her and breed her like some animal. In fact, Darcy does almost run after him—the closest thing to a friend she might possibly be able to have here at Privet Drive.

As Harry continues to spiral into isolation, Darcy finds life at Privet Drive unbearable for most of the beginning of summer. He refuses to leave his room most times, locking his door, having Darcy bring him food instead of eating with her in the kitchen. Darcy could easily unlock the door with a quick, simple spell, and she’s sure Harry knows that, but she decides to respect his privacy. And everyday, without fail, Gavin rides by on his bicycle, waving to them most days and stopping for a quick chat other days.

“You don’t still swim naked, do you?” he asks innocently one day, and Aunt Petunia nearly chokes upon hearing it. His familiar grin spreads wide across his face.

“You’ll be happy to know that I’ve since kicked the habit,” Darcy answers with a shy smile, shaking her head and returning to the garden. “You’re distracting me, Gavin. Can’t you see how hard I’m working on the garden?”

“And a wonderful garden it is,” Gavin says, mounting his bike again. “See you later, Mrs. Dursley.” He inclines his head politely when Darcy looks at him again. “Darcy.”

Harry doesn’t seem to find Darcy’s talk of Gavin so interesting. Not that she has much to say about him, but whenever he stops by, she details his visit to Harry before bed— _he helped mulch today when Aunt Petunia and I grew tired; he fixed the broken shutter today; he told me I looked pretty today_. Harry grunts a response most times, almost looking resentful. “And what about Lupin?” he asks her one night.

Darcy narrows her eyes, hurt. “It’s not like that.” Scoffing, Darcy shakes her head. “Remus has nothing to do with this.”

His answer is another grunt. Darcy thinks he’s going to leave it at that, but Harry sits up straight on his bed, looking angry. “You’re not even going to try and make up with him?”

“I’m sorry,” Darcy tells him breathlessly, her heart aching painfully. “I don’t even know if he wants to—” When she starts to cry again, Harry seems to soften a bit, realizing the harshness of his words, but he struggles to find words of comfort that actually soothe Darcy.

And yet, Darcy finds that, despite her and Gavin not being technically real friends, it’s nice to have someone around her age to talk to, and someone who is not Aunt Petunia, Vernon, or Dudley. While Gavin is a few years older than her, there’s something youthful about him—the mischievous twinkle in his eyes when he looks at her while speaking to Aunt Petunia, the way he bounces on his feet when he speaks—the inability to stay still, the impish yet innocent grin always on his face. It all reminds her of Ludo Bagman, and whenever she thinks of Ludo Bagman, her heart starts to ache, the familiar feelings of disappointment and loneliness creeping up to take her suddenly.

She thinks of Ludo Bagman more than she thought she ever would. _Maybe he’s not dead, but he still left me_. Harry had told her the truth of what happened—he’d cheated Fred and George out of their winnings with leprechaun gold. So deep in debt with goblins, Ludo couldn’t pay them back, and placed a bet on Harry winning the Triwizard Tournament, but that hadn’t gone as planned, for the goblins had claimed Harry wasn’t the _only_ winner like Ludo Bagman had bet on. _He used my brother, she thinks every time. He used my brother, helped him because he wanted the winnings of his bet, not because he cared about me_. But sometimes when she lies in bed, just on the verge of sleep, she can almost feel phantom hands on her cheeks, phantom lips on her forehead, and it all comforts her, lulling her to sleep.

“The garden looks wonderful, truly,” Gavin says one day, walking his bicycle to the front of the walkway. “I’ll have to tell my aunt you’ve added some Begonias. They’re her favorite.”

Aunt Petunia flushes with pride at the compliment.

“You could have one,” Darcy smiles, bending down to cut one the freshly planted flowers. Gavin accepts it from her with a grin. “You could give it to your aunt.”

“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs, holding it up to examine it. “Maybe I’ll keep it for myself.”

“It’s not for _you_ ,” Darcy teases.

He returns the next day with a planter of new Begonias. Carrying them over to the garden, Gavin tells her, “To replace the one I took. She loved it, by the way.” But Darcy barely registers what he says, too busy admiring his thick arms and his straining biceps, shimmering with sweat.

Another day, Aunt Petunia convinces Gavin to stay for a glass of lemonade. They drink it in the backyard under the shade of a tree, and Gavin is full of false-sounding compliments for Aunt Petunia. Her aunt laughs a high-pitched laugh, and Darcy even sees her cheekbones turn pink when Gavin compliments her new haircut. Vernon comes out as Gavin finishes his drink, and he reminisces about his days at Smeltings (which, according to Vernon, is a much better school than Eton, which Darcy doesn’t quite think is true judging by the side eye look that Gavin gives her), asking about Eton and Cambridge, and debating for a moment about rugby. Gavin gives Vernon a respectable and firm handshake and bids them all goodbye. The three of them watch him go curiously, eyes fixed on him.

“A fine boy, that Gavin,” Vernon says to Aunt Petunia, not paying Darcy any attention. “Just like our Dudders, isn’t he?”

Petunia glows at the thought. At this, Darcy can’t keep quiet anymore. She gives the back of Vernon’s head an incredulous look. “ _No_ ,” she retorts, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.

The single word earns her a sharp backhand, and her cheek stings painfully, her hand jumping up to cradle her face. Tears well in her eyes, but she says no more and nearly runs back into the house when Aunt Petunia tells her to go to her room.

Once, when Gavin stops by while Aunt Petunia’s inside, he asks, “How is that brother of yours? What was his name again? I never see him. Is he still attached to your hip?”

“Harry. And he’s fourteen,” Darcy answers with a slight smile. “Of course he’s not.”

“Is he still fond of sweets?” Gavin raises an eyebrow, smirking. “If I bring some, will it lure him out of the house? I’d like to see him proper. A man now, is he?”

“Harry’s not been feeling well,” Darcy lies—it’s only a half-lie, really. “Maybe another time.”

“He’s not mad, is he?”

Darcy blinks in surprise, bristling. “He’s not mad,” she hisses. “Why would you even suggest that?”

“I didn’t think he was,” Gavin confesses, looking apologetic. “You know how everyone gossips. My aunt is the worst, I swear it. I didn’t mean any offense.”

“Aunt Petunia’s not much better,” Darcy admits, wrapping her arms around herself and glancing over her shoulder to make sure they’re still alone. They share a soft laugh. “I try to take everything she says with a grain of salt.”

Gavin hums, considering her. “You’re not like her—your aunt. You’re different from the other girls round here.”

“I don’t think you quite understand what that means to me.” His statement puts her at ease. “How so?”

“I’m not quite sure yet.”

Sometimes after she wakes from a nightmare alone, listening to Harry’s bed groaning under his constant tossing and turning, Darcy wonders what it would be like to have Gavin touch her. The urge to be held, to be touched and kissed and comforted grows strong without Lupin around. With Harry being so distant, it’s harder to find joy with the Dursleys at all. Harry had always been her strength and her happiness while stuck at Privet Drive, and she isn’t sure what to do about him anymore. She’d tried to be the kind of person _she_ needed while grieving—affectionate and reassuring and comforting and warm—but Harry hadn’t been very receiving to it. He wanted the distance, wanted to be left to his thoughts. She cherishes the small moments they do share—eating ice cream from the tub in her room one night, her reading Gemma’s findings of her experiment aloud to Harry straight from the _Daily Prophet_ , playing chess in silence after dinner.

So Darcy begins to find solace in conversations with Gavin, stolen moments while Aunt Petunia is distracted. Part of her is wary—after all, he’s very much from Aunt Petunia and Vernon’s world, the very world Darcy wants absolutely no part of. The mere fact that Aunt Petunia and Vernon are so charmed by him slightly repulses Darcy, but at the same time, he’s the only other person besides Harry she enjoys talking to, and he’s willing enough to talk to her.

Aunt Petunia finally talks Gavin into having dinner with them one night, and they make plans for a few nights out. Before Gavin leaves, he asks with a genuine smile, “Will Harry be there? I’ve been looking forward to seeing him again.”

Darcy’s eyes go wide and she looks quickly at Aunt Petunia. Darcy half expects her to withdraw the offer immediately. Aunt Petunia’s lips are pursed, but then she forces herself to smile. “Of course.”

So two nights later, after a loud argument in which Vernon had shouted about Harry not joining them for dinner, he had grudgingly given in at his wife’s request, afraid that Gavin may find something _unusual_ if Harry were not with them. The single word had been Vernon’s undoing. And so Harry sits with them, his hair combed (but still sticking up in the back), across the table from Darcy and Gavin, beside Dudley.

Dinner is less awkward than she’d originally thought. Vernon and Gavin talk most of the time, and Petunia urges Darcy to continue refilling Gavin’s wine glass. The first time she does it, he cuts off in the middle of his sentence, surprising Vernon, thanks her politely and with a smile. The second time she goes to refill it, Gavin puts his hand over his glass, and Darcy frowns, feeling she’s done something wrong.

“No more, thank you,” he says, not unkindly. “I can refill my own glass—I would not expect you to.” Gavin takes the bottle from Darcy’s hands and refills her own glass, then his, before returning to the conversation.

Vernon and Petunia exchange a long, uneasy look, and Darcy suddenly feels much more at ease with Gavin than ever before. _He does not expect me to be another Aunt Petunia. He really is my friend_. And a friend is such a sweet thing to have right now, she thinks.

Gavin even speaks with Harry over dinner. He asks about his interests, and when Harry is unable to give him a solid one, Darcy tells him, “Harry’s quite good at chess,” she supplies, smiling at Harry. “He always beats me.”

“I used to enjoy playing chess when I was your age,” Gavin says, leaning slightly forward towards Harry. “We should play a match or two sometime. Maybe I’ll pick it up again. You can give me some pointers.”

Harry sits up a little straighter in his chair and clears his throat. “Sure. I’d like that.”

Vernon gives him a sharp look.

Aunt Petunia does make Darcy walk Gavin out. She doesn’t mind, and follows him outside to his bicycle. As soon as the door shuts behind them, it’s a weight lifted off Darcy’s shoulders. “Dinner was wonderful,” Gavin sighs contently, patting his stomach. “Did you cook, Darcy?”

“Only the roast,” she says, blushing. “It was nothing.”

Gavin gives her a mischievous grin, throwing a leg over his bike. “The roast was my favorite part,” he tells her in a low voice. “Nice dress. Your aunt make you wear it?”

“Why? Is it horrible?” Darcy flattens the dress quickly, feeling suddenly very gangly and awkward.

He laughs. “It’s nice. But I think I like you better with dirt on your face.” Considering her, he continues. “Why don’t I take you out sometime?”

Darcy flushes a deep crimson. “Gavin,” she scoffs, wetting her lips. “There are things you don’t know about me.”

“I’m sure,” he shrugs. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No,” she answers, and it makes her laugh weakly. “No, I’ve never killed anyone.”

“Do you have some secret lover I don’t know about?”

“No,” she says again, frowning. “I just—I’m not ready to—” Darcy sighs deeply. “Things just ended between me and someone, and I’m not quite ready for anything.”

“Was it messy?” Gavin asks, sympathetic.

She shrugs. “No, not really. Just sad.”

“Look, my aunt’s hosting a garden party next Friday. I’ve told them about you, and they want you to come. Your aunt, too.” Gavin grins. “At least come to that.”

Darcy hesitates. “I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Gavin asks, looking more curious than accusing. He tilts his head to the side, like a lost puppy dog. “Some of my mates will be there. I’ll introduce you. Consider it a thank you for having me to dinner.”

“We’ll see.”

When she brings the idea of going to a garden party to Harry later that night, he scowls. “That’s not you,” he snaps.

“I know it’s not, but—I feel that he’s the only friend I’ve got around here sometimes. He’s not bad. He’s not like the Dursleys.”

“ _I’m_ your friend.”

“Friends talk to each other.” Darcy grinds her teeth, waiting for an answer, but Harry only waits for her to continue. “You haven’t done much of that lately.”

“Neither have you,” Harry growls, his face darkening. He looks much older than fourteen in the moment. “I hear you crying at night, don’t think I don’t listen. You thrash at night in your bed and cry over Lupin, and suddenly you want to go to a _garden party_ with Gavin and Petunia?”

Darcy blushes furiously. “I thought it would be fun. Don’t I deserve that much at least?”

“Right,” he huffs, standing up from his seat upon Darcy’s bed. “Petunia’s always liked you, hasn’t she? They didn’t even want me eating dinner with them, but she’ll take you to a _garden party_.”

“You’re hurting my feelings.”

Harry softens instantly, but doesn’t say anymore. He walks out without another word. Darcy doesn’t sleep easy that night, hearing Harry’s muffled moans through the walls, listening to him talk, over and over and over again—“Cedric—Cedric— _no_ —”

The ruffle of feathers is all that alerts Darcy to Max’s presence. There’s a letter tied to his leg from Sirius, and Darcy pulls it off quickly. She’s quite glad that he’s so receptive to her, as once she had begged him not to hoot—for fear of angering Vernon—he’d stopped immediately. As Harry drifts back into a soundless sleep, Darcy turns her desk lamp on to read the letter and searches for paper and a pen to write her response.

_Darcy,_

_I can’t say much. Stay where you are and be on watch. Take care of Harry. We’ll see each other again soon._

_Padfoot_

Darcy feels a great sense of disappointment. He hadn’t even signed it like he always does—with love. She pushes the letter aside and begins to write her own.

_Remus,_

_I’m asking you to take me at my word, but any questions you have after this letter, I’ll gladly answer in person. This house is driving me mad and Harry is lost in grief. I don’t know what to do. I am alone and I need to leave. Please get me out of here._

_Darcy_

She wants to write _I love you, I love you, I want to come home_ , but Max takes off with the letter tied to his leg without any such words of love.


	2. Chapter 2

_Darcy,_

_If your uncle is hitting you, I want you to send your reply immediately after this letter reaches you. And do not lie to me, because I will know._

_Unfortunately, I’m unable to collect you and Harry at the present time. Just stay where you are and keep a sharp lookout. Do not leave Privet Drive._

_Gemma wanted me to ask what you thought about her research paper, assuming you’ve read it. If you’d like to write her a letter, I’ll make sure it reaches her._

_Remus_

Darcy scowls, crumpling up the letter. What is that supposed to mean? Is Gemma supposed to be with him? _After what I told Gemma about that night, and she’s still talking to him like everything is okay? While my brother and I are stuck here?_

Who does he think he is telling Darcy what to do? The thought runs through her head over and over and over again, but another part of Darcy can’t really be angry with him. What did she expect? That Lupin would stage a rescue mission at the drop of a hat to get her and her brother away from the Dursleys just because she asked? She thought he’d understand better than anyone what she is so desperate to leave, especially after all his talk of not wanting her to ever return. _I am not his anymore_ , she reminds herself sadly. _Maybe I ask too much._

But she remembers who she is then—the daughter of James and Lily, friends of his that were good to him. Shouldn’t he feel slightly obligated to protect her? Even though she swore she didn’t want him to feel obligated to her for that sole reason, Darcy now finds herself wishing Lupin could see sense.

_Fine. If he refuses to help me, then I’ll seek comfort elsewhere_ , she tells herself, standing up and huffing. _Fine_.

* * *

“A garden party?” Aunt Petunia asks, not bothering to open her eyes. The sun beats down on her white face, her legs stretched out in front of her. She adjusts the wide-brimmed hat upon her head to better shade her face from the sun. “When?”

“Tomorrow,” Darcy says desperately, frowning. She shields her eyes from the sun, sitting up straight on the chair beside Aunt Petunia. “Gavin’s aunt is hosting it, and he asked if we wanted to go. He said she wants to meet me.”

This makes Petunia tense. Her eyes snap open and she gives Darcy a suspicious look. Looking over her shoulder towards the house, presumably for a sign of Vernon, she lowers her voice. “What have you been telling him?” she hisses, moving closer to Darcy’s face. “You haven’t been telling him about—you know—”

“No, Aunt Petunia, I swear it, I haven’t told him anything,” she pleads with her aunt, her voice barely a whisper. “Can we please go?”

Aunt Petunia sighs, giving Darcy an appraising look. “You like this boy? Gavin?”

Darcy shifts uncomfortably. “Yes,” she answers. “He’s sweet on me.”

Aunt Petunia closes her eyes again, getting comfortable again. “I don’t see why not. Now, leave me, and don’t think of asking me for anything else for a long while.” Before Darcy can enter the house, Aunt Petunia snaps her fingers, halting Darcy. “Bring some lemonade.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

Darcy is subject to the most humiliating and dehumanizing thing she thinks she’s ever been forced to do that night. Aunt Petunia makes her try on several different sundresses—ugly things that seem very out of fashion, and many of the dresses clash horribly with her hair. They smell weird, not having been touched for long periods of time, and Darcy hopes Gavin never sees her in some of them, ever. She takes care to change in the bathroom each time, not wanting her aunt to catch sight of her scars. Finally, Aunt Petunia allows Darcy to pick something from her own closet, and is mildly impressed with her choice—a simple white dress that somehow makes her legs look longer by stopping mid-thigh, short sleeves that cover both of her shoulders, a cropped neckline that appeases Aunt Petunia.

At first, when Darcy exits the bathroom and shows Aunt Petunia the dress, her aunt’s bony hand jumps to her mouth. There’s a heavy silence that falls over them and Darcy swears she sees Aunt Petunia’s eyes shine with tears for a moment. Darcy thinks that she’ll say something sweet about her resemblance to Lily, but Aunt Petunia only hisses, “Of course you’d be beautiful like _her_ , wouldn’t you?” It’s not meant to be a compliment in the slightest, and Darcy wonders if Aunt Petunia remembers much of James’s face and sees him in Darcy, as well. “My _perfect_ sister and her _perfect_ daughter.”

“I’m sorry, Aunt Petunia,” Darcy says slowly after a long pause, blushing. “I—I can change.”

Aunt Petunia shakes her head, but the contempt is still in her cold eyes. “That dress will be fine. I have some shoes you can wear with it.”

Darcy nods. The next day, Aunt Petunia smears lipstick on her lips, brushes her jutting cheekbones with blush, and pins her hair back painfully in a low bun, making Darcy’s neck look too long. When her aunt finishes making her up like a little lady, Darcy decides to wear the necklace Lupin had given her for Christmas. The sight of her reflection in the mirror shocks her—Darcy can hardly recognize herself. _Harry was right_ , she thinks, wanting to wipe the makeup off right away. _This isn’t me_.

Aunt Petunia doesn’t even notice the necklace until they’re climbing into the car as Vernon starts it. “Where did you get that?” she asks sharply, her eyes narrowing, as if Darcy had stolen it out of her bedroom.

“It was a gift,” Darcy says, and she’s thankful no one questions it.

Part of her feels guilty for going to some stupid party, for leaving the house when Dumbledore had asked her not to—when Sirius and Lupin had asked her not to—and for not keeping an eye on Harry. But she’d told herself it was only one night, and after the sorry reply Lupin had sent her, Darcy thinks if Lupin knew she was attending a garden party she was invited to by a handsome young man, he’d likely be quite jealous. It’s for that reason she forces herself to go, even if Lupin will never know. But the guilt lingers, especially with the feeling of being watched, as if _someone_ knows that she’s away from the house, even if she doesn’t know who.

Gavin’s aunt’s house is a bit beyond Privet Drive, farther than she’s expected, where the houses are bigger and older and further apart, and there’s much more land with them. They become different, and it’s almost like being in a different world for a moment. Normally, during the summers, her whole world was almost always the inside of the Dursleys, or Privet Drive itself. Vernon stops the car outside the Coldwells, a tall house with columns outside the front door and a garden three times the size of Aunt Petunia’s in its entirety. It’s much bigger than Emily’s house—she’d always thought Emily’s house was particularly large—and almost the way Darcy pictures Gemma’s house to look. Just looking at it, Darcy knows there’s a lot of money involved, and the house is a sign of status, not just a place to live.

The Coldwell’s garden party is a hit, it seems. The majority of the guests are women like Aunt Petunia—dressed very prettily and wearing hats or holding umbrellas to shade themselves from the sun. A few women cool themselves with expensive looking fans, detailed with intricate and unique designs. More sandwiches than Darcy cares to count are set among tables for them to eat, surrounded by fruits and salads. Lights are strung up in the trees, and a few women maybe ten years Darcy’s senior are playing a game of croquet. There aren’t many men—Gavin stands with four other boys his age, watching the croquet game progress. Gavin looks far too handsome for his own good—his blonde hair is parted to the side, but a few pieces fall into his eyes. Dressed in a button down blue shirt, the sleeves are rolled up to expose his muscular forearms, and a few buttons are undone at the top, giving Darcy a peak at his taut chest. She forces herself to look away, blushing furiously and silently chastising herself.

Two husbands of gossiping women talk amiably, laughing and joking, holding tumblers of some amber liquid. A few younger children run around playing a game of tag, circling Darcy’s legs before disappearing into the crowd of people. Darcy’s never been to anything like it—the only other big event she’s ever attended is the Yule Ball, but this is _better_. The company may not be the best, but it feels so good to get out of the house and not have to worry about Aunt Petunia being overly cruel in front of the other women. With guests around, Darcy feels safe, and it’s much easier to breathe again. With the yard so beautifully decorated, it seems _magical_ —she can easily see the appeal of it all.

Mrs. Coldwell is an older woman with sleek, gray hair and a young face, sprightly for a woman of her age. Aunt Petunia had told her little of Mrs. Coldwell, but enough. Mrs. Coldwell had married into Gavin’s family at only eighteen—completely broke, jobless, and fresh out of school. But Darcy likes her anyway. Her eyes are bright and warm, pale in the sunlight. She’s particularly excited to see that Darcy’s grown into quite the young woman, commenting on her height and hair and hips and breasts, telling Aunt Petunia she should be proud. This makes Aunt Petunia purse her lips, but she accepts the compliment with false courtesy.

Darcy is paraded around for a time, introduced to women she’d seen long ago when she was younger, or caught in conversation. They ask questions and get vague answers— _Yes, I study abroad. I’m studying to be a teacher. No, I’m not seeing anyone. I’m five-foot-nine, I swear. Yes, I still remember that poem_. Every so often, she and Gavin make eye contact across the yard and he always grins at her, but never approaches to steal her away. She wonders if this is how Gemma feels at galas, or if she enjoys performing all of the courtesies. The thought of Gemma makes her stomach churn—why is she with Lupin? Why are they still in contact after what happened? Darcy tries to reason with herself. She loves the both of them very much, and knows they had become good friends over the last year. _Gemma should be my friend first, not his._

Mrs. Coldwell continues to push drinks on Darcy—champagne and punch mostly, but the adrenaline of being at the garden party keeps her head clear for the most part. She asks about Darcy’s friendship with Gavin—asks if Darcy finds him handsome, talks about where his hard work has gotten him at Cambridge. Darcy knows little about Cambridge, and less about politics when it’s brought up. Under the guise of getting a sandwich, Darcy slips away from Aunt Petunia and Mrs. Coldwell as the sun sets, and the yellow lights strung around the yard become the only source of light. She sneaks into the house through the back door, making for the bathroom, but she’s too tempted by the beautifully carved balcony doors not to go through them when she reaches the second floor.

The balcony is near pitch dark, and Darcy steps up to the edge to peer down at the yard. Her feet ache from the shoes Aunt Petunia had given her to wear—shoes from years ago, too small for Darcy’s feet. She takes them off and throws them to the side, letting them clatter against the balcony floor.

“Hey, Darcy.”

Darcy jumps, her heart thumping violently and painfully against her chest. Thankfully, she hadn’t brought her wand with her, elsewise there likely would have been an accidental attack. When she turns, she finds Gavin chuckling in the corner of the balcony, surrounded by his four friends. “ _Shit_ , I didn’t know anyone else was out here. You scared the hell out of me, Gavin,” she gasps, and Gavin’s friends laugh. Once she catches her breath, Darcy chuckles nervously with them. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Gavin puffs on a cigar, and Darcy’s eyes begin to adjust to the dim lighting. The smell of cigar is strong now, wafting in the still summer air. He passes it to the friend on his left. “No, no—stay. I told you I’d introduce you to my mates, didn’t I?” He smiles at her, and Darcy wraps her arms around herself. “We all went to Eton together. Alex and Mark go to Cambridge with me. Neil, Will—they’re Oxford boys.” Gavin steps forward to stand at Darcy’s side. “This is Petunia Dursley’s niece, Darcy.”

“Petunia’s?” Neil asks, crossing his arms. His honey-blonde hair is parted off to the side much like Gavin’s, but Neil’s is parted and combed flat in a way that slightly reminds her of Dudley. “That boy Dudley is awful, isn’t he? My brother said he gained so much weight he wouldn’t fit his school uniform. Is it true?”

“That’s her cousin, be careful,” Gavin replies coolly, quickly regaining his jovial manner.

“No, it’s all right,” she assures him, resting a hand on Gavin’s arm. Darcy gives Neil a small smile. “It’s true. We all had to follow a strict diet last summer. I almost starved, and for nothing. He’s still the same, just more muscle.”

“Vernon says Dudley’s the best wrestler in his school,” Gavin explains, and Darcy remembers how he’d given her an unbelieving look at dinner when the topic came up.

“Likely he just smothers them,” Alex grins. He’s a tall and lanky boy, even taller than Lupin, and much skinnier. His arms hang at his side awkwardly, far too long for his body.

This makes them all roar with laughter, elbowing each other in the ribs. “Heard a queer story about him having a tail,” Will puts in, and his friends try to shout him down, snorting in disbelief. Up close, Will is broad-shouldered and short of leg, his trousers slightly too long. “I swear, I heard it! Yeah, Darcy? Tail or no tail?”

Gavin glances at Darcy to gauge her reaction, smiling when he sees her smile. Darcy shrugs innocently, leaning forward in a dramatic manner and whispering, “It was surgically removed.”

The boys erupt into obnoxious laughter again, and Darcy laughs with them in spite of herself. She misses her own friends—laughing and gossiping with Gemma, Emily, and Carla, back when times were easier and happier. Alex puffs on the cigar, coughing hard as he laughs, turning red in the face. He passes it to Mark, who holds it between his thumb and forefinger for a moment, considering her with twinkling eyes. “Is he really as stupid as Neil’s brother says? He says Dudley doesn’t even know who the Prime Minister is.”

“Oh, I’m certain he doesn’t,” Darcy chuckles, not wanting to reveal that she doesn’t know who the Prime Minister is, either. At least she knows who the Minister of Magic is, which is all that really matters to her. “Vernon thinks he’ll be like Gavin.”

“Bloody hell! Can you imagine?” Mark cackles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s a rather endearing sight, to see someone so unburdened by stress that he can laugh so honestly. “Dudley Dursley going to Eton? Or Cambridge?”

“Where does he go to school?” Alex asks, leaning back on the half wall and crossing his arms.

“Smeltings,” Darcy answers, and Neil snorts. “Same as Vernon. He thinks it’s better than Eton.”

All of the boys erupt in groans and more laughter, shaking their heads. “Yeah right!” Will retorts, quieting his friends. “What does he know about anything? He went to _Smeltings_.”

“It’s true,” Gavin confirms, putting a hand on Darcy’s shoulder, grinning. “Had dinner at his house about a week ago. Should have heard him going on about hangings making a comeback. I was afraid to disagree lest he hang me on the spot. Do you smoke, Darcy?” He pulls a soft pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and before she can answer, has one held out for her. His friends put the cigar out in a glass ashtray on the rail. Darcy allows Gavin to light her cigarette, and she inhales deeply, feeling lightheaded almost as once.

“You’re all right, Darcy,” Neil tells her seriously, pulling out his own cigarette. Will mimics him. “Gavin said you were pretty, but he didn’t mention you were funny, too.”

Darcy rounds on Gavin, blushing. “You told them I was pretty?”

“I said you were nice to look at.” He gives her a goofy, unabashed smile, his eyes roving over his friends slowly. “Excuse us, boys. Could Darcy and I have a word?”

“As you wish,” Alex smiles, leading his friends back inside. Neil and Will put their half-smoked cigarettes out in the ashtray, following the other boys inside.

Gavin only shrugs, grinning at Darcy. “It’s my aunt and uncle’s house, but I still feel it’s polite to ask.” He leads Darcy to the edge of the balcony to look over the party. No one looks up to pay them any mind, not that anyone would be able to see them. “Enjoying the party?”

Darcy laughs softly. “As much as I can, I think,” she confesses. “Your aunt and uncle’s house is beautiful.”

“That’s kind of you,” Gavin says, bringing his cigarette to his lips. “I’m sure they’d be pleased you think so.” He considers her for a moment. “You look very pretty tonight, Darcy. Even without shoes on.”

“I try not to make a habit out of wearing heels,” she jests, glancing at the discarded shoes lying on the ground. “Why anyone would want to wear them…”

“Not like you need them, yeah?”

Darcy gives him a sharp look, but softens almost at once. She looks down into the yard, pointing at a woman around Petunia’s age with short brown hair. “That woman told me when I was seven that no man would ever want a woman he’d have to look up to,” she recalls, scowling. “And tonight, she told me that if I was looking to impress you, I shouldn’t have worn heels that made me look half an amazon.”

“That’s not such a bad thing, is it?”

“I don’t think she meant it as a compliment.”

“No matter,” Gavin shrugs, tearing his eyes away from the party. “It happens I like tall women.”

Darcy doesn’t answer, but blushes furiously again. She wishes things could be different, and receiving compliments from him didn’t make her feel so guilty.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says again, breaking the tension. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“You only asked me everyday this week if I was,” Darcy jokes. She suddenly decides to let the tension lessen even more, to let herself speak freely to him. “I was nervous, truthfully. I don’t really go to these kinds of things.”

Gavin chuckles, a throaty chuckle. “I told you, you’re different.”

“I don’t think you quite know how true that is,” she offers nervously. She gives Gavin a sideways, shy look. “When you come riding your bicycle by the house—it’s always the best part of my day.”

Gavin continues to smile at her. “It’s the best part of mine.” He looks sad then, his smile fading and his brow furrowing. “What happened with this boy of yours?”

Darcy feels tears well in her eyes, and Gavin doesn’t fail to notice. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

He hums. “I’m sorry about my friends. Dudley has always been cruel to Neil’s little brother. They shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

“I don’t mind, truly,” Darcy answers, smiling weakly and putting her cigarette out in the ashtray. “Dudley is cruel to Harry, as well. And me sometimes. He’s vile.”

Gavin looks at her for a long time, putting his out cigarette out. Darcy clenches her jaw, clearing her throat. She knows it’s going to happen before it even happens—Gavin leans in slowly to kiss her, and for a moment she’s frozen to the spot, unable to move. Just barely, Darcy turns her head to evade his lips—it takes everything in her to do so, so bad is her desire to be kissed and shown affection. She wants to make Lupin hurt the way that she does—knows that he’d be furious...wouldn’t he? She’s not his anymore—why should he care who she kisses? Gavin stops, resting his forehead against hers for a second.

“Gavin,” she frowns. “I can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. He sighs when Darcy looks away from him, flushing scarlet. Gavin lifts his head, moving past her to pluck the cigar from the ashtray. With it held between his teeth, he utters, “Goodnight, Darcy.”

Darcy feels foolish at being dismissed in such a way, but she obliges, slipping her shoes back on and racing inside. She closes the balcony door behind her, hurrying down the stairs only to find Will in the kitchen.

“Darcy,” Will calls out, his mouth full of sandwich. She turns to face him, slightly flustered. He holds up a finger as he chews and swallows. “The tail thing—was that really true?”

Darcy, not wanting to say too much, only shrugs and raises her eyebrows. Will chuckles.

“Sorry about all that,” he says apologetically. “We’re usually above laughing at children, but Dudley’s the exception, and we’ve been trying to get Gavin to laugh properly for weeks.”

Darcy’s smile fades. “What do you mean? Is he all right?” She thinks of Gavin’s permanent smile and wonders how someone so joyful could ever be so unhappy.

Will smiles wickedly, as if he knows he shouldn’t be saying anything. But it soon turns into a very warm and kind smile. “Gavin’s girlfriend packed up her stuff and left just a few weeks ago. Years they’d been together.”

“But why?” Her heart aches for him, and then aches at the thought of Lupin.

“She made Gavin choose between her or his studies,” Will replies. “You don’t know him like we do—we all knew he’d pick his studies over her. And he did. He’s top of his class now because of it.”

Darcy stares at Will incredulously for a long time. He blinks in confusion, frowning and giving her a cautious look. He knows what it’s like to have to choose, if not under such dire circumstances. But it’s an understanding she may not be able to find in anyone else at Privet Drive.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Will wipes his mouth. “Something on my face?”

“No—no, you’re fine. Sorry,” Darcy mutters, shaking her head. “It was nice to meet you, Will. Gavin’s finishing the cigar upstairs if you’d like to join him.”

“ _Bastard_ ,” Will hisses, licking his fingers and moving quickly for someone with such short legs. “That’s _my_ cigar—” And before Darcy can say goodbye, Will’s heavy footsteps are running up the stairs.

When Darcy steps out into the summer air again, Aunt Petunia is slightly tipsy, sipping on a glass of champagne. Checking her watch, Darcy resigns to walking over to her aunt, knowing Vernon will likely come to pick them up very soon. Thankfully, Vernon’s car horn sounds a few minutes later before Darcy is forced to converse with Aunt Petunia, or forced to give an explanation to where she’d slipped off or why she smells so badly like smoke.

As Darcy leaves, getting in a few last minute goodbyes, she glances up at the balcony, seeing a thin stream of smoke rising. She can make out Gavin’s silhouette, and sees his shadow lift a hand in farewell. Darcy waves weakly back at him, following Aunt Petunia to the car.

Over the next few weeks, Gavin makes it a point to stay for longer when he rides his bicycle past. Aunt Petunia lets them talk in private more often, and while Gavin hasn’t asked her out again or given her any compliments, he’s an excellent conversationalist and his smiles make up for the lack of affection. Sometimes he brings flowers for Aunt Petunia, sweets for Harry, his favorite books for Darcy, and when Darcy tells Gavin that Harry’s fifteenth birthday is coming up, he comes by with a neatly wrapped gift the next day.

Harry is surprised by the gesture, but decides to open it a few days prior to his birthday, too excited to wait. Gavin has gotten Harry a new chess set with beautifully carved pieces. He urges Darcy to play a few matches with her, and she only wins one out of the three. His anger with Gavin subsides for a little while. He’s voiced it before to Darcy—angry that Gavin is able to charm her like he does Aunt Petunia, angry that Gavin is trying to steal away his sister, angry that Darcy hasn’t tried to make amends with Lupin. She doesn’t think that’s quite fair, but remembers that Harry doesn’t know the real reason things had ended.

“Why don’t you just write him?” Harry asks pointedly one night. Darcy hadn’t told him of her desperate plea for help, afraid he’d get angry with her. “Just tell him you’re sorry—”

Darcy rounds on her brother. “Because I’m _not_ sorry,” she snaps at him. “I have nothing to be sorry for.”

She can’t understand why Harry is so angry with her over the entire thing, when there are far more pressing issues. Still, she stews in her anger, not bothering to write Lupin an answer, nor Gemma a letter at all. An unfamiliar bird had come to her window one night bearing another letter from Lupin, telling her off for not writing back about Vernon hitting her. She’d wanted to write back and tell him to fuck off in a much politer sense, but Darcy felt it was probably better to just say nothing at all. At least Lupin thought about her enough to send another letter after not hearing back from her.

Harry’s birthday is a quiet thing between them. His friends have written letters, and Darcy is able to secure an expensive cake courtesy of Gavin. The two of them fill up on sweets and cake and grumble about the fact that no one has written them a decent letter all summer, and wondering if anyone is going to come take them away. Even Ron hasn’t offered a date as to when Harry and Darcy could stay with him at the Burrow, and she finds herself looking wistfully out her bedroom window that night into the dark, hoping a pair of headlights will be seen flying closer, coming to save them just like a few years ago.

And when August rolls around, bringing with it the worst of the heat, Darcy becomes slightly more excited at the prospect of crossing another month off her calendar. Another month closer to returning to Hogwarts, to being with her friends again, and seeing Harry happy again, even being with Snape brings her some small joy.

Monday night, Harry slips out to take a walk. Darcy had protested feebly for a few minutes, but he’d only gotten angry and she scoffed and stormed off as he walked out the front door. He’s gone for a long time, long after Darcy retires to her bedroom to go to sleep early. It’s that night she hears the faint tapping as the sky grows dark. Lying in bed, Darcy feels her heart stop, and she reaches for her wand underneath her pillow. Creeping to the window, Darcy prepares to see a hooded figure ready to kill her, or someone come to rescue her. But the sight of blond hair and white teeth in the darkness surprises her, and she lowers her wand. There’s a few rocks still in the palm of his hand, and he’s carrying a bag on his thick shoulders.

“Gavin!” she hisses, smiling down at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to bring you somewhere, and if truth be told, I’m too nervous to knock on the front door and ask your aunt for you.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Darcy whispers back, but her heart flutters at the thought someone has come for her, even if it is only Gavin. “Vernon wouldn’t appreciate you trying to get me to sneak out.”

“Of course not. He’d probably hang me out front as a warning to other men,” Gavin laughs, but Darcy doesn’t think he’s far off the mark. “Come down here, Darcy, or let down your hair so I can climb up.”

Darcy smiles. “My hair isn’t long enough to reach down there.”

“Lucky for you, I have long arms.” Gavin raises his eyebrows impatiently, rocking back and forth on his feet. “Come on—I’ve brought you a bicycle.”

“I haven’t ridden a bicycle since I was eight-years-old.”

“Then we’ll walk our bikes.”

Darcy hesitates, looking over her shoulder. No one ever comes in her room at night except for Harry, and he wouldn’t tell anyone she had snuck out—unless he thought she’d been taken, or stolen by Death Eaters. But if she should leave a note, explaining she was off with Gavin, would that make him angry? Why should she deny herself this—a chance at an hour or so of joy? _Because I was told to stay with Harry_. “I shouldn’t,” she tells him apologetically.

“You _should_ ,” he insists. “Come on—jump down, I’ll catch you.”

“I’ll fall and break my leg.”

“Come _on_!” Gavin laughs again softly, holding up his hands as if to help her down. “I promise I’ll return you home at a decent time.”

Darcy dances on her feet for a moment, looking at the door once more. “All right,” she says finally, sliding on her shoes. “I’m coming down. But I’m in my pajamas.”

“That’s fine, Darcy—just climb down. I promise, I’ll catch you.”

Darcy clambers out of the window with surprising ease, lowering her long legs first and dropping when Gavin positions himself beneath her. It isn’t a particularly long drop, but he catches her, just like he’s promised. It makes Darcy flush and breathless when his arms wrap around her, and when he releases her, Darcy feels she can breathe again. Part of her feel ashamed for feeling a stirring in her core due to someone’s arms around her, but she shakes the feeling. Despite not having ridden a bicycle in so long, Darcy finds the skill still comes naturally to her and she keeps up with Gavin as he leads her away from Privet Drive. It’s a relatively short ride, but it makes Darcy briefly forget her worries and anxieties with the summer air blowing through her hair and cooling her face. She even laughs when they race down a slight hill—a true, genuine laughter—and the sound makes Gavin look over his shoulder at her. His familiar, easy grin is still plastered to his face.

He leads her to a trail, and the two of them prop their bicycles against some thick tree trunks and continue on foot. Gavin takes her by the hand, pulling her deeper into the woods quickly, where he pulls a flashlight out of his pocket and gives them some source of light. Darcy can hear the faint trickling of a nearby stream, and the soft rustle of leaves blowing in the breeze.

“Where are we?” she asks, panting slightly as Gavin gives her hand a gentle tug.

“This was my favorite place when I’d visit as a child,” he explains, seemingly not at all tired from their journey. “A place where the moon reflects off the water and lights the trees. My aunt brought me here for the first time when I was young. She said the same thing about it.”

He’s right. There’s a little opening slightly further into the woods, and though the moon is a small sliver of white up above them, it shines down on the water and Darcy can see Gavin’s face much better. Gavin pulls a blanket out of his bag and lays it on the ground, insisting Darcy sit.

“Is this supposed to be you taking me out?” Darcy asks him as he takes a seat next to her. “Or do you have slightly more wicked intentions? Have you brought me out here to murder me and throw my body in the stream?”

“Would you rather I take you in public where there’d be many more witnesses to the crime?” Gavin chuckles. “I study law, you know. The first rule is never have too many witnesses to a crime. Now, would you like some wine?” Gavin pulls out a bottle, but no glasses. “I’ll have you know, though—wine is only for people who don’t think I’m going to kill them.”

Darcy smiles, suddenly very thirsty. “Wine sounds fine.”

Gavin pops the cork out. “You don’t seem the type to chastise me for drinking from the bottle.” He takes a long swig with his eyebrows raised all the way to his hairline.

She snatches the bottle out of Gavin’s hand, drinking some herself. It’s not a cheap wine like she’s used to, but one probably not meant for drinking straight from the bottle. It warms her stomach and leaves a queer feeling in her chest. “It’s good,” she says, scrunching her nose, and Gavin laughs, taking the bottle back from her. “Now, tell me why you’ve brought me all the way out here in my pajamas.”

“I think you look cute in your pajamas,” Gavin notes, and Darcy’s cheeks go red. Something moves lightly behind her in the trees and Darcy jumps, looking over her shoulder to find everything is still and normal. Slowing her racing heart, she forces herself to look at Gavin. _Am I paranoid, or is someone watching us?_ The hair on the back of her neck stands up. “I thought the farther I could get you from your aunt, the more open you’d be willing to be with me. Does she frighten you so?”

Darcy shifts uncomfortably, taking a long drink of wine when it’s offered to her again. Gavin seems to sense her hesitancy, allowing her a cigarette and lighting it for her. “Vernon frightens me more.” She narrows her eyes at him. “You don’t know what they’re like. You don’t know what Vernon is like.”

“Why don’t you call him Uncle Vernon?”

“Excuse me?”

Gavin smiles kindly, moving a little closer to her on the blanket and drinking. “You always refer to your aunt as Aunt Petunia. Why don’t you call your uncle Uncle Vernon? Why just Vernon?”

Darcy scoffs, taking a long drag of her cigarette. “He is _not_ my uncle. He is _not_ my family.” She sighs, softening, feeling guilty for being so short with him. “Tell me something I don’t know about you, and might be I’ll tell you about this boy of mine.”

He thinks for a moment, tapping his chin lightly. “There was a girl,” he begins, his smile faltering. Darcy has the grace to pretend Will hadn’t already told her. “Lucy. I met her my first year of Cambridge. American—can you believe that?”

“Was she pretty?”

“Very pretty, very smart, and very stubborn. We dated for a few weeks and moved in together,” Gavin says, lying back on the blanket with his hands behind his head. “We were together for a few years and she did a lot of traveling during that time, while I spent much of my own time studying, dedicating my time to schoolwork. She wanted me to come with her, to do things with her, to take a break from my studies, but I couldn’t.”

Darcy looks at him for a long time, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. She wonders if it’s the wine that has loosened his tongue, or if he just trusts her that much.

“I came home from school one day, just at the beginning of summer, and all of her things were gone.”

It all makes her feel very sad. “And do you regret it? Choosing your studies over Lucy?”

“Why should I?” Gavin asks, frowning up at her. “I’m on track to graduate top of my class. I was born for this, groomed for this—this is expected of me. Who would I be if I had chosen Lucy? Who am I to dismiss all that has been done to get me here?”

Darcy pauses, listening to the chirping of insects. She licks her lips, considering him. “Do you ever wish it was different? That you’d chosen Lucy over everything?”

“Sometimes, yes.” Gavin thinks for a moment. “I loved her very much, but there were things that were expected of me. But I made my choice, and I’m happy with it.”

“But don’t you wish sometimes that you’d been born someone else? That you could be free to do whatever you wanted?”

“Why would I wish that? This is the hand I’ve been dealt.” He props himself on an elbow, his hair falling into his eyes. “A deal’s a deal, Darcy. You said you’d tell me about your mystery boy.”

She smiles sadly at him, unsure of how much to tell him. She’d rather not tell him at all, but she can’t see the harm in revealing the general idea. “I was sad and lonely and he was there for me during a very hard part of my life,” Darcy says slowly. “But he wanted things I wasn’t ready for. And just in June, we—” Gavin looks to be expecting more, watching her drink more wine and shrug casually. “He left when I told him I couldn’t give him more.”

The thought of it makes her hurt. The thought of him leaving so quickly, without even kissing her properly one more time. Surely he misses her—surely he didn’t just stop loving her the moment he walked out. She doesn’t even want to think about him, let alone speak his name to Gavin.

“He was sweet to me, and kind, and he’d read to me by the fire.” Darcy sighs. “I had—never loved anyone like that before.”

Gavin sits up again, eyeing her curiously. “You’re very young, aren’t you?”

“I’m nineteen,” Darcy says indignantly. “You’re not even that much older than me.”

He smiles again, his usual self. “Is that what you think love is, then? A man that is sweet and kind and can read?”

Darcy flushes. “It was more than that. You wouldn’t understand.” She runs a hand through her hair. “He’s clever and compassionate, loving when I am in dire need of love. I have not known many men who’ve been kind to me like he was. Do you know what it was like to be touched so softly after knowing Vernon’s hand?”

This startles Gavin. “Vernon hits you?”

She falters for a moment. “I mean—just once or twice when I was younger.”

Gavin narrows his eyes, but doesn’t push the subject. They’re quiet for a long time, and Darcy feels the hair on the back of her neck stand up again—or had it ever gone down? She looks around the surrounding woods, seeing nothing. Gavin doesn’t seem to share her paranoia, giving her some small comfort.

“Why didn’t you come by the other day?” Darcy asks suddenly. “Thursday—I was outside gardening with Aunt Petunia, and you never came. I was going to give you some flowers for your aunt.”

“That’s sweet of you. I thought I’d give myself a rest day,” Gavin answers, laughing at himself. “And they were playing some of my favorite movies on the television. Did you miss me that much?”

“I’ve gotten used to you.” Darcy blushes again. “I enjoy talking to you.”

“Could I be honest?”

“Please.”

“I’d still like to kiss you,” he whispers, and Darcy tenses. She does another sweep of the surrounding woods. “Look, Darcy, I quite enjoy your company, and there’s still a few weeks left until we’re off living completely separate lives.”

This makes Darcy wary. As much as she thinks she’d like to kiss Gavin, she feels that actually doing it may be taking it too far. “Gavin, I’m telling you, there are things you don’t know about me.”

“Try me,” he says, smiling arrogantly—but it suits him. Gavin leans closer to her. “What deep, dark secrets are you hiding from me?”

She knows that Gavin doesn’t know—he doesn’t understand the weight of his question. Darcy doesn’t even know why it weighs so heavily on her. She isn’t sure which one of them moves first, but their lips meet in the middle in a bruising kiss. They kiss only for a few moments before there’s a crack from behind them, as if a large branch has broken. Darcy jumps and pulls away, her neck cracking as she looks towards the source of the noise.

“What was that?” she whispers. A stab of panic goes through her as she remembers she doesn’t have her wand.

Gavin smiles again—always smiling. He tucks a few stray pieces of her hair behind her ear. “Just an animal.”

Her heart throbs violently, and she’s suddenly lightheaded. Gavin touches her cheek lightly, turning her head back towards him. “Just an animal,” she repeats, and he nods. “Right.”

He kisses her again, his fingers tangling in her hair. It feels _good_ to be kissed, to be wanted, to be touched. She likes the feel of his day old stubble rubbing against her face, the fluttering of his eyelashes against her cheek, the way his tongue brushes against hers. Gavin is practiced, making her feel young and inexperienced and awkward, but when he lays her back on the blanket, something takes hold of her. She lets him touch her over her clothes with deft and practiced fingers, and Darcy brushes her fingertips over the front of his trousers, eliciting a low, hollow groan from Gavin.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, and Darcy cringes, wondering he’ll still think her marred shoulder is beautiful—wondering if he’ll flinch away from them like Oliver Wood had.

As Gavin’s lips travel to her throat, hungry kisses against the most sensitive parts of her neck, Darcy hears another loud crack. She jumps so suddenly that it frightens Gavin. He pulls away from her, looking around with wide eyes, trying to follow Darcy’s line of vision. Her heart is racing painfully fast now, but she can’t see anyone watching or lurking between the trees. Even Gavin seems unsettled now, staying completely still as he listens for another sound. After a few moments, Gavin gets to his feet slowly, his flashlight in his hand. Darcy watches him creep closer to where the crack had come from, shining his light all around, finally turning back to Darcy and shrugging when he finds nothing.

“It’s probably just an animal,” Gavin assures her, though he doesn’t seem confident about it. “No one comes back here, especially at night.”

But Darcy doesn’t think that seems right. This crack had been slightly louder than the first, and different. This crack hadn’t sounded like a breaking branch—it almost seemed like... _no, that’s impossible,_ she tells herself warily, _no one is here. It was only a branch._

“Maybe we should go back,” Darcy whispers, suddenly very afraid. _If there is someone here, how do I know if they’re trying to protect me or hurt me_? Hearing the first crack was odd—quite possibly only an animal—yet she was able to push it to the back of her mind. But hearing a second crack makes a feeling of dread crawl over Darcy—a feeling that something is terribly, terribly wrong. _I haven’t been attacked yet. I’m just being paranoid._

“I think we’re all right,” he says, kneeling beside Darcy again and squeezing her hand gently. “It must be some animal, or a rotting branch falling from a tree.”

He kisses her again, but it does little to ease her fears. While his hand travels up her shirt to cup a breast, Darcy focuses hard on the noises in the night. She listens hard for the sign of a person—heavy breathing, a single footstep, the shifting of weight and rustling of leaves underfoot, but there is nothing to indicate they’re being watched. When Gavin tugs gently at her shorts, pulling them down her long legs, Darcy blushes, hoping for her sake that no one really is watching, for fear of what they’d be forced to witness. He kisses inside of her thighs, making her tremble—she’s sure Gavin can feel the heat radiating from between her legs on his face.

But when he goes to lower her underwear and kiss her where she aches to be kissed, Darcy sighs. It takes everything in her to stop him; all she can think about is Lupin—her Remus, the first boy to ever kiss her between the legs, and it’s all she can think of—she can’t push the thought of him out of her mind. All she can picture is Lupin’s pretty brown hair streaked with gray between her thighs, the scratch of his beard against her smooth skin, the way he’d rest his cheek against her stomach and close his eyes when he’d finish with her, smiling against her skin as her fingers raked through his hair.

“I can’t,” she says suddenly, touching Gavin’s head to stop him. She shudders at the feel of his hot breath. “I’m sorry—I can’t do this—”

“Oh, I—are you, er—have you never...?”

“No,” Darcy answers quickly, so embarrassed she feels she could faint. “It’s just...you’re not... _him_.”

Gavin furrows his brow, but sits back on his heels. He has the decency to look away as Darcy quickly dresses herself again, humiliated. “Would you like me to take you home?”

“Yes, please,” she replies, never having felt more like a child, and wanting nothing more than to curl up in her bed and cry. 


	3. Chapter 3

“ _Where have you been, girl_?”

Darcy freezes halfway through the window, one of her legs dangling awkwardly, just inches from the ground. The lights in the kitchen and dining room flick on, and Darcy looks at Aunt Petunia, seated in one of the chairs at the table. Her face is white and her lips are pursed very tightly, and Darcy can’t help but notice her aunt won’t look her in the eyes. Vernon is standing in the threshold, his finger still touching the light switch, and he snarls at Darcy as she clambers into the house, closing the window behind her.

“Do you have _any_ idea what we’ve been through tonight?” Vernon continues, his voice no more than a growl. Darcy stammers stupidly, shaking her head, wishing he’d just hit her once and get it over with. “Do you know how many damn owls have been here in the last hour alone? Do you have any idea what’s happened to our Dudders? _Do you_?” Vernon’s face is purple with rage, and the well-worn vein in his temple throbs angrily. “I want to know what you had to do with this, where you were, and then I want you _gone_ , do you hear me?”

“She stays,” Aunt Petunia says meekly, and though the idea doesn’t appeal to Vernon, he doesn’t fight it. Still, she doesn’t meet Darcy’s eyes.

“I—I—I don’t—” Darcy’s heart has stopped, she’s sure of it. Where’s Harry? What’s happened to him? If there were as many owls as Vernon makes it seem, then something big has happened and she’s missed it because of a stupid boy. Panic floods her, and she fights to urge to race upstairs, to fling Harry’s door open. “I don’t know what happened, I—”

“You can start by telling us where you were,” Vernon spits, looking disgusted. “You _dare_ sneak out at night—you _dare_ —and to come crawling through our window like a some kind of common _thief_!”

“I was with Gavin,” Darcy confesses, looking pleadingly at Aunt Petunia. When her aunt’s eyes remain firmly fixed upon the tablecloth, Darcy begins to cry, fear gripping her heart. A cold she associates with dementors seems to drown her—what’s happened to Harry? “Please...Gavin came to my window…I don’t know what’s happened—please tell me—”

But Vernon isn’t about to indulge her. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, digging around and looking triumphant. Darcy’s pulse pounds in her ears, bile rising in her throat and burning her esophagus. She almost vomits on the spot, so afraid. He pulls some paper out of his pocket and slams it onto the table, but paper isn’t all he has— _pictures_ , she thinks with a start, _he has my pictures_. But they aren’t just any photographs—they’re ones of she and Lupin, and the papers are letters written over the course of the last school years, letters that Darcy knows have things written in them that make her blush. The knowledge that Vernon has likely read these letters, has seen the photographs of them—half-naked in some of them and in bed together—makes a kind of fear surge through her that Darcy’s never felt before.

It’s then Darcy realizes why Aunt Petunia won’t meet her eyes. Surely Aunt Petunia has told Vernon _who_ this Remus Lupin is—surely she’s told him all the terrible things she can come up with about him. Vernon knows who this man is that is kissing her in the photographs, that is touching her in the photographs, that has written in some letters—in graphic detail—exactly what he’d wanted to do to her. For a second she lets out a string of incoherent words, unsure of what to say. Her face is painfully red, and her heart is racing in her chest out of fear and embarrassment. “Aunt Petunia,” she says softly, turning to Aunt Petunia and hoping for support, knowing she won’t give Darcy any relief at all, but needing to try nonetheless. “Aunt Petunia, please—I love him—”

But these are, apparently, the worst words Darcy could have possibly chosen to say. Aunt Petunia closes her eyes, exhaling loudly through her thin nose, and Vernon shouts, his voice thundering through the entire house. “You will be _never_ contact this man again, do you understand me? Your father’s good for nothing friend—I don’t know what I expected from _you_.”

“I—” Darcy’s stomach churns so violently she forces herself to swallow the bile in her throat. “Aunt Petunia, please—”

“Haven’t you learned, girl? Your mother was the same way, and what did it get her? _You_. She got _you_. A _disgrace_.” And suddenly, he turns to Aunt Petunia. “Get the cane, Petunia.”

And to Darcy’s surprise, Aunt Petunia doesn’t move. She feels a surge of affection for her aunt, and Vernon falters at his wife’s insolence.

“The cane, Petunia,” Vernon repeats politely, as if Aunt Petunia simply hadn’t heard him the first time. “She needs to be taught the consequences of her actions.”

Still, Aunt Petunia doesn’t move. She clasps her hands together atop the table, closing her eyes. Vernon breathes deeply, his jowls quivering and sensing defeat, and suddenly he lunges for Darcy. Darcy shrieks, making to run past him, but his large figure blocks the only way out of the kitchen. Vernon grabs her by the wrist before she’s able to slip away and she cries loudly, struggling in his grasp, wiggling like an eel. His grip on her wrist is bruising.

“Let go!” she screams, trying to pull her way free, her vision blurred by tears, her head throbbing. “Please! Let go!”

Vernon drags Darcy into the living room, pushing her against the wall. She holds her arms around herself, crying, shaking. He closes the windows, pulls the blinds down, locks the front door, makes sure that not a single person could possibly get into or see into their home, and then he turns to Darcy. She flattens herself against the wall, trying to control her breathing and crying. If only she had her wand…if only she hadn’t been so stupid to leave it in her room.

When Vernon’s palm first meets Darcy’s cheek, the gold band on his ring finger breaks skin just below her already swelling eye. She cries out, holding a hand to her cheek, tears streaming down her face. The second swat stings just as badly and she closes her eyes, slightly dizzy. _I should have just told Remus he was hitting me. Maybe he would have taken me away._

The third blow splits her lip. Darcy can’t keep quiet any longer. “Aunt Petunia!” she sobs, hoping that her aunt will show her face, will tell Vernon to stop, but she doesn’t so much as utter a word, or acknowledge Darcy in the slightest. “Aunt Petunia, please—”

She opens her eyes again, and as Vernon winds up for his final strike, Darcy shuts them tight once more. With the blow comes words Darcy has never heard out of Vernon’s mouth before, calling her names no one’s ever called her, calling Lupin names that enrage her. The blow comes quickly, hard, and the impact makes her stumble and stagger into the wall behind her. Darcy covers her face, crying into her hands, her face throbbing painfully, and Vernon seems to decide this is finally enough. He opens the blinds and the windows again, unlocks the front door. She slides down the wall, unable to stand any longer on her shaky legs, and Vernon walks back to the kitchen, muttering under his breath to his wife.

Darcy sits there for a moment, cowering as far from Vernon as she can get, holding her knees to her chest with one arm and wiping blood from the corner of her mouth with the other. Her entire body trembles violently, and Darcy looks at Vernon’s wide back through the archway into the kitchen. She pushes herself to her feet silently, still crying, and forces herself to walk to the staircase, jumping at the sight at the very top of the stairs.

Harry’s there, sitting down with his knees drawn to his chest, his eyes shining with tears. And behind him, his face drained and tinted green, his eyes wide as saucers and looking slightly horrified, is Dudley. Both boys stand as she reaches the top of the stairs. Harry puts a hand on her arm as if to steady himself, but it’s Dudley that Darcy looks at. He’s sweating profusely, his hair slick with it, and he looks down at his feet. Darcy looks at his face, silently begging him to look her in the eyes.

Dudley finally lifts his eyes when he realizes he cannot hide from her. His eyes rove over her ugly face, and Darcy cannot hold her tongue. Her anger outweighs the current pain, throbbing, aching. In a low voice, she says, “My parents would _never_ have hit you.”

He struggles to find speech for a moment, and in a soft squeak, Dudley stammers, “I—I don’t think you’re any of those things that he said.”

His words make her want to cry. Not only does she not believe him at all, but she remembers all the times he’d laughed when Vernon slapped her or insulted her. “You’re just like him,” she whispers, not wanting anyone else to hear. “I will pray for whatever sorry woman becomes your wife.”

Darcy shoulders past him, heading first to her room. Harry follows, stuttering and whispering her name, but she ignores him. Max is in her bedroom, having been waiting for her to come back, and Darcy digs around in her desk for paper and a pencil, writing only two words— _help me_. When she rolls it up to tie to Max’s leg, some blood smears the paper, but Darcy doesn’t mind, hoping it will increase the urgency.

“Darcy…” Harry says again, breathlessly. When she turns around to face him, he sucks in a deep breath at the sight of her. “Dementors...there were dementors tonight...two of them, and they attacked Dudley, and…” His heart doesn’t seem to be in it, but a chill runs down Darcy’s spine at these words. If Vernon had not just confronted her about some letters and photographs, Darcy feels his claim about dementors would have frightened her much more. “Let me help you. I’ll tell you everything.”

They lock themselves in the bathroom, and Darcy cringes at the sight of herself. Her bottom lip is swollen to twice its normal size, a sizable gash on the right side. Her right cheekbone is a purplish-blue color, the skin split where the ring had met her skin. Her eye is bloodshot and swollen, violently bruised underneath, giving her the appearance of a raccoon. She hadn’t realized her nose was bleeding—a trickle of dried blood falls to her upper lip. Even her wrist, where Vernon’s fat fingers clasped around her, is slightly bruised.

Darcy winces as Harry starts to clean her face with a warm washcloth. As he cleans her face and tries to mimic Aunt Petunia’s routine of using cream to ease the swelling, he tells her of what happened in an almost bitter tone. Two dementors had attacked he and Dudley just down the street, Harry used a Patronus to save Dudley’s life, someone named Mundungus Fletcher was supposed to be watching him, Mrs. Figg is a squib, he’d been expelled from Hogwarts, but Dumbledore had convinced the Ministry to wait for a hearing, Mr. Weasley and Sirius had written letters telling him to stay put, someone had sent Aunt Petunia a Howler. Darcy’s quiet all the while, trying to keep her tears from flowing. The story frightens her, but the fear is nothing right now—not after what Vernon had done to her. And the fear is nothing to the guilt she feels—she _failed_ Harry, just to be with some boy. How could she have done that? How could she have ignored everyone’s instructions to keep an eye on Harry? She disrespected Dumbledore, Lupin, Sirius—everyone who had pleaded with her to stay put, she’d disrespected, and it disgusts her.

“I came up here and you were gone,” Harry whispers, shaking his head and lowering the washcloth. “Your wand was still under your pillow, your things untouched—I thought someone had taken you.”

Darcy flushes deep red, ashamed. “I was with Gavin.” She starts to cry again. _Stop crying, you stupid girl_ , she tells herself. _Crying is all you do_. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t know.”

The way Harry’s jaw works during his few moments of silence tells Darcy he wants to be angry. She admires him for keeping his temper at bay, likely because of the way her face looks, but she admires him regardless. He nods, as if agreeing with himself, and leaves Darcy alone in the bathroom without another word, closing the door on her quietly.

How could she have been so stupid? What could possibly have been going through her head when Gavin came to her window? She’d left her wand behind and her brother to sneak out with a boy, to let him kiss and touch her and... _what was I thinking_? Darcy looks up into the mirror again curiously. _Someone was supposed to be watching Harry. We’re being watched. Someone was in the woods watching me and Gavin_. The realization that the crack may have been more than a breaking branch makes her shiver and blush. She runs out of the bathroom and back to her bedroom, peering out the window, trying to find someone hiding in the bushes down below, or wandering down the sidewalk. Darcy’s heart is impossible to calm, and her chest heaves as she closes the curtains, locking her window and her door.

_Dementors_ , she thinks. The entire situation is strange and frightening—why would the Ministry of Magic expel Harry for using magic to save his life? Darcy knows for a _fact_ that Harry has the right to use magic in a life-threatening situation. Had he done nothing, both he and Dudley would either be dead, or worse—soulless. Surely Cornelius Fudge understands the severity of the situation—surely he is looking into the reasoning behind two dementors coming so close to number four Privet Drive? Surely he realizes it must be connected to Voldemort. Dumbledore had told the Minister clearly, just in June, that the dementors would likely break and rejoin the Death Eaters. And why must he go through a hearing? Why are they so intent on expelling him for such a thing when, just two summers ago, he’d blown up Marge and gotten off with nothing?

But even as she thinks it through, things don’t seem to add up. Darcy knows Fudge didn’t want to believe that Voldemort had come back, but she thought he’d at least take Dumbledore’s advice as he always had. But nothing seems to have been done—at least, nothing that’s been reported to the public. The _Daily Prophet_ has been unusually quiet where Voldemort is concerned. As far as Darcy can remember, there hasn’t been a single mention of Voldemort in the papers, and she’s been watching the news as often as possible, but there’ve been no disappearances or murders that may not be what they seem. What is he doing? Where is Voldemort now, and why is he hiding his time? He’s back—he’s returned—it should be war... _or is there, and we just aren’t seeing it from Privet Drive?_

Darcy lies down in bed, resting the good side of her face on her pillow. She slips a hand under it, feeling for her wand and curling her fingers around it. She thinks of Harry’s story one more time before falling asleep, and remembers one of the more stranger things—who could have possibly sent Aunt Petunia a Howler?

* * *

With her face so horrifying and ugly and shameful to look upon, Aunt Petunia doesn’t allow Darcy to leave the house at all over the next week as it heals. Gavin still stops by everyday on his bicycle—Darcy watches him from her bedroom window, pulling away whenever he glances up to check for her. Everyday, Darcy asks Aunt Petunia if he’s asked about her, but she never receives a straight answer. She doesn’t want Gavin to think she doesn’t want to talk to him—on the contrary, she wants Gavin to come to her window again so he can take her away from Privet Drive. On Thursday, Darcy watches Gavin give Aunt Petunia a bouquet of yellow flowers, looking up at Darcy’s window and frowning. Aunt Petunia takes them, but when Darcy asks if they’re for her, they’re thrown directly in the garbage in front of her very eyes. One day, Gavin calls the house asking to speak with Darcy. Aunt Petunia takes care to sit right next to Darcy the entire time, for fear of her giving too much information.

“Gavin, do you remember what I told you that night?” she asks cautiously, and Aunt Petunia narrows her eyes. “I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

There’s an awkward pause, but Gavin finally answers, “Yes.” He sighs. “Is someone listening to you?”

“Yes.”

“Would you let down your hair for me if I came?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow evening.”

Aunt Petunia had, thankfully, been able to salvage many of Darcy’s photographs. The letters had been torn to shreds in a fit of Vernon’s black anger. Just a few hours after her phone call with Gavin, Aunt Petunia lets herself into Darcy’s room with her hands full of several pictures. Every photograph that had consisted of the both of them or at least one of them lacking some article of clothing is missing, Darcy notices, and many of the pictures have been taped back together. The sight of her photographs like this makes her heart ache and tears well in her eyes. She knows she can just fix them with magic once Aunt Petunia isn’t looking, but it still makes her sad that someone had hated such sweet pictures.

“Thank you,” Darcy murmurs, taking the photographs back. She cradles them in her hands before putting them away gingerly, hiding them in her desk drawer as Aunt Petunia watches on.

“You should have gone with him,” her aunt hisses, making Darcy hesitate, looking up at her from her seat on the bed. “Nothing he could do to you would be worse than that.”

Darcy touches her aching face, still swollen and still bruised, but tinged with yellow and green now. “He would _never_ hit me.” She bristles, insulted that Aunt Petunia would ever assume that of Lupin. “Leave me alone.”

She scowls as Aunt Petunia leaves the bedroom. This week had been quite difficult, for a number of different reasons. Being kept away from Gavin was near torture—she needed to talk to someone, to have someone smile at her, to have someone hug her. Vernon, whenever Darcy graced him with her temporary presence, looked at her as if she were nothing more than an insect on the bottom of his shoe; Aunt Petunia, clearly horrified after what had happened, rarely speaks to her; even Dudley keeps his distance, leaving the living room when Darcy joins him to watch the television. But Harry’s the worst—Darcy doesn’t think Harry’s left his bedroom the entire week except to use the bathroom. He’d sent letters to his friends and Sirius and hadn’t gotten a response (not that she’d gotten one from Lupin, either).

She knows that he’s angry. She knows that he probably hates her for sneaking out with Gavin instead of staying at home. But what could she have done? She wasn’t with Harry—she wouldn’t have been able to do anything about the dementors, nor would she have been able to do anything about his short-lived expulsion. But the guilt still weighs on her—Darcy knows she should have been here to comfort Harry, to assure him that it would be okay. _I can’t even do that right. Everyone probably hates me._

Friday evening, Aunt Petunia comes into her bedroom again, dressed very nicely. Darcy scrunches her nose, looking back out the window, hoping for a sign of Gavin. “Vernon, Dudley, and I are going out. Don’t touch anything, do you understand? You’re not to leave the house looking like that.”

Darcy doesn’t answer, and Aunt Petunia leaves her in peace. Darcy hears Vernon shuffling heavily in the hallway, locking both of their doors as if Darcy isn’t an adult witch. The only reason she’d been allowed her wand in the first place was because she had threatened to use magic, and Vernon had known it wasn’t just an empty threat. As soon as the car rumbles out of the driveway and down the street, Darcy takes out her wand and unlocks her door lazily, along with Harry’s. Before returning to her bedroom, she knocks on his door.

“Harry?” she asks, frowning. “Are you all right in there?”

Harry grunts. Not that she’d really expected anything else. Darcy retreats to her bedroom, and is pleasantly surprised when Gavin rides up to her window not fifteen minutes later. She hesitates before opening the window, wondering if there’s someone outside right now, watching her, watching Gavin. Darcy scans the yard furtively for a sign of a watcher. As the window slides open, she hears Gavin whisper, “Let down your hair for me, Darcy—I’m coming up!”

“You don’t have to,” she says, chuckling. “It’s just me and Harry here. I’ll meet you at the front door.”

Gavin seems quite relieved to not have to climb up, but when Darcy opens the door and he catches sight of her face in the light, it almost seems to take his breath away. He pushes Darcy back into the house and kicks the door closed behind him, his hands jumping to her face to examine the bruises. Darcy closes her eyes—it all reminds her of Lupin, his touch, his concern. It makes her sad. His fingers and hands are smooth, likely never having seen a hard day’s work. It’s a foreign feeling after knowing Lupin’s rough and callused touch.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes. Despite his gentle fingertips, his touch still makes her cheek throb. When Darcy opens her eyes again, Gavin looks much less his usual self. His face is hard and angry, strange considering how gently he touches her. She wants to reach out and cup his cheek, to see his face soften at her own touch. “Darcy, why haven’t you told anyone?”

“It’s nothing—it’s fine.” Part of her wishes he’d kiss her now, kiss every part of her that’s bruised, just to remind her that she’s still beautiful. “Please don’t tell anyone—”

“Darcy, you have to tell someone,” Gavin insists, angry now. His hands fall from her face to hold her by the arms. “I’ll tell my aunt, and you can stay with us for the rest of the summer, I’m sure she’ll let you if she knew what’s been happening. Is this why you haven’t come outside? Is Harry the same?”

With a rush of affection for Gavin, Darcy shakes her head. “No, Harry’s fine. Just forget about it for right now, please.”

“How can I forget about it when half your face is a different color?”

“Gavin, please, if you really care about me then you’d just forget it,” she begs, reaching out for his hands. He frowns, exhaling loudly through his nose, but allows Darcy to pull him slowly towards the sofa. Before she sits down, Darcy walks over to the large window, looking around the front lawn for anyone who may be watching. She tries to look down the street, in other people’s windows. _Is someone really watching us now_? Her fingers trace the outline of her wand she’s remembered to grab, stuck in the waistband of her shorts. She draws the curtains and turns back to face Gavin.

“Where is Harry?” he asks suspiciously, leaning forward to glance into the kitchen. “Is he here?”

“He’s in his room,” Darcy admits, wondering if Harry even realizes who is in the house. She feels bad for him, considering briefly going up to check on him again. “You can turn the television on if you want.”

He does as she says, sitting back down quickly. “Would you come sit down? You’re making me nervous.” Gavin holds a hand out for her and Darcy is too tempted by the prospect of holding someone’s hand to refuse. He laces their fingers, pulling her to his side. “Are you all right? You seem, er—paranoid. When are your aunt and uncle due home?”

“They only left a little while ago. I’m fine,” she answers, trying to seem calm. Darcy smiles weakly. “I just—don’t want anyone to look in here and...see me, you know?”

Gavin takes a long time to answer. “Yeah, all right.”

Darcy hesitates, leaning in and pulling back, and leaning in again to rest her head against his chest, her forehead pressing against his unusually warm neck. Gavin rests his cheek atop her head and she closes her eyes as he drapes a thick arm around her. She didn’t realize such a gesture would bring her such comfort, but it does—a sense of peace she has not felt since before the third task—before everything— _how long has it been_ …?

“Darcy,” Gavin murmurs into her hair. It’s a sweet sound, her name rolling off his tongue. She hums in response. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

There are so many things she wants to ask of him. _Take me away for the rest of the summer. Kiss me all over. Let me sleep beside you, just to remember what it’s like to sleep next to someone_. All of the things that bring her comfort. Darcy nuzzles into his chest, listening the slightly quick beating of his heart. “Call me kitten.”

Gavin smiles against her hair. “Kitten.”

Her heart nearly bursts with affection for him at the very word, providing her an indescribable comfort. But it’s not the same. Darcy looks up at him, and without thinking, gives him a soft kiss. Gavin smiles when she pulls away, touching her cheekbone again before peppering her bruises in feathery-soft kisses. The feeling of his lips so innocently on her skin makes her giggle, and Gavin smiles weakly against her cheek. Kisses soon turn into tickles and he digs his fingers into her hips, making her shriek with laughter, squirming in his hold.

When finally he stops, both his strong arms wrapped around her, Gavin continues to smile down at her, tangled up together on the sofa. Darcy’s chest is heaving, a smile on her face, all her cares forgotten for the moment. “Don’t tickle me,” she says breathlessly, far too late. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”

Gavin only smiles, completely unabashed. “I remember you standing by the fireplace there reciting your poems,” he tells her, and Darcy frowns. “Shaking like a leaf, hands behind your back, dressed up pretty. I liked listening to you recite poetry.”

“Do you know much poetry? Maybe you could recite a poem for me.”

“You still enjoy poetry? After all these years?”

“Of course I do,” she smiles. “You can learn a lot about someone by learning their favorite poems. They’re pretty and sad and funny. Tell me one.”

“I probably don’t have as extensive a collection as you do.” Gavin wriggles his eyebrows. “One for me, and I’ll never ask again.”

Darcy thinks for a moment, distracted by the closeness of his mouth. She forces herself to look into his eyes. “‘Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; but only so an hour.’” Darcy smiles again, a shy smile. “‘Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief.”

Gavin raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“‘So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.’”

“Lovely,” he whispers. “You’re much better at it than you were.”

Darcy blushes, nuzzling against his chest and closing her eyes.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when she wakes again, there’s a blanket draped over she and Gavin—his legs propped on the coffee table, which Aunt Petunia would kill him for—the lights are off and the television nearly blinds her—and someone’s talking in her ear. Bleary-eyed, Darcy turns towards the speaker.

“Hey, Darcy. Sorry to interrupt, but…” Gemma flashes her a bright smile in the darkness. “Are you ready to get the fuck out of here?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thanks for all the feedback! Because I’ve got a few extra chapters written already, I guess I’ll post a new one. Also—in this house, we stan Gemma, now and forever.

Darcy blinks in surprise. From beside and slightly underneath her, Gavin begins to stir from his sleep. “Gemma?”

“That’s right. I can fix your face for you, if you’d like.”

“What are you doing here?”

Gemma’s face is right in front of her’s, and when Darcy realizes Gemma is not alone, she sits up straight, blushing furiously and kicking off the blanket. Mad-Eye Moody—or, the _real_ Moody—is in the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, grizzly as ever with half his nose missing and thinning gray hair, his magical eye fixed upon Gavin; Tonks, her short hair purple today, looks ecstatic to see Darcy alive, but concerned as her eyes rove over her cheek; a few other wizards and witches she isn’t familiar with stand scattered about the room; and standing just behind Gemma, looking very unamused by the scene, his jaw set, is Lupin. They look at each other for a long moment, his eyes fixed upon the side of her cheek, drinking in the multitude of colors on her face. Her heart races beneath her chest and the room begins to spin.

“Darcy,” Gavin whispers in her ear, grabbing her upper arm very tightly. “Who the hell are these people? What’s wrong with his eye—why is he dressed like that—did her hair just— _change_? Do you know these people?”

“Of course she does. I’m her best friend,” Gemma announces proudly. She points to Lupin over her shoulder, looking at Gavin very seriously. “Ex-boyfriend.”

Gavin lets out a sudden bark of laughter. “ _Him_?” he asks Darcy, and the expression on his face—one of disbelief and amusement—angers Darcy.

Both Darcy and Lupin speak at the same time, rounding on Gavin. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Darcy growls, shaking her head and running a hand through her hair. “But what are you all doing here?” she asks breathlessly, trying hard not to look Lupin in the eyes. But it’s fruitless—anger surges in her and she snarls at Lupin, ignoring Gemma completely. “I wrote to you for help and you did _nothing_. Where’s Max? What have you done with him?”

“Who’s Max?” Gavin asks quickly, looking around in horror, the amusement of meeting Lupin gone. “What’s happening? Who are you people?”

“Max is my owl.”

“Your—you have an _owl_? Why? A pet owl?”

“Max is fine—he’s a headquarters,” Lupin answers, his eyes flicking to Gavin and hardening. “We’re here to rescue you.” He lowers his voice, glancing around and pushing Gemma aside to move closer to Darcy. “A little gratitude might be nice.”

“I’d have been more grateful if you came when I first wrote you,” Darcy hisses. “What the hell are you playing at, leaving Harry and I in the dark? No one’s told us anything—what’s Voldemort doing? What is the Ministry doing to stop him? Why are you the one responsible for passing my messages on to Gemma?”

“Oh, have you remembered Voldemort? In between your garden parties and sneaking out with boys—”

“You’ve been _spying_ on me?”

“Dumbledore wanted an eye kept on both you and Harry—”

“It was _you_ that night,” Darcy says through gritted teeth. If his words hadn’t gotten her blood pumping, Darcy thinks she might have already kissed him, so close are their faces. She flushes, however, at the thought Lupin watching Gavin kiss her, touch her. “You were spying on us in the woods. What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Don’t worry,” Lupin scoffs, pushing his hair back out of his eyes and straightening up. “I left before the actual act itself.”

Darcy gets to her feet, fuming. “I did _not_ sleep with Gavin, if that’s what you’re so concerned about.”

All the while, Gavin looks at Darcy with wide eyes. “ _What is going on_?”

Both Darcy and Lupin jump nearly a foot off the ground. She’d almost forgotten there were other people surrounding her—a multitude of people watching and listening to their argument. Darcy looks at Gavin, taking in his frightened eyes.

“Are we _finished_ now?” Gemma snaps, looking at them both in turn. “Are we ready to act like adults?”

Harry’s racing down the steps now, relieving the thick tension, his footsteps heavy and nearly shaking the entire house. “Professor Lupin?” he asks, bewildered. Lupin stiffens and turns, smiling warmly at Harry, a distinct contrast from the cold look he had when speaking to Darcy. Harry looks around the room, obviously trying hard to avoid looking at Gavin. “Professor Moody? _Gemma_?”

“Thanks, Smythe,” Mad-Eye Moody growls, thumping towards them and giving Gavin another hard look with both eyes. “Say goodbye, Potter. Boy’s going to need a Memory Charm put on him. Kingsley—that’s you.”

A tall, black wizard steps forward, his wand held in his hand. Gavin tenses, leaping to his feet and hiding behind Darcy. “You’re going to put a Memory Charm on him?” she asks quietly, frowning. “You’re going to make him forget me?”

“That’s—that’s impossible,” Gavin laughs nervously, breathing very heavily. “There’s no such thing—what are you talking about?”

“But you can’t do that!” Darcy protests, wrapping her hand around Gavin’s bicep. “He won’t tell anyone.” She looks up at him pleadingly. “Will you, Gavin?”

“It’s not for your safety, Potter,” Moody interrupts again, his thin mouth a gash across his scarred face. But when Darcy looks at him, she thinks his face is softer than normal. “It’s for his. If a Death Eater catches wind that you’ve been chatting up a Muggle boy, they won’t hesitate to kill or torture him. Kingsley, get it done. Smythe, go pack Darcy’s things while she says goodbye.”

“Kill me?” Gavin frets, overwhelmed. “What’s a Muggle? What’s happening?”

Slowly, the wizards and witches move back into the kitchen. Lupin leaves quickly, Gemma makes her way up the stairs, with Harry following her, Tonks’s hand on his shoulder. Only Kingsley stays in the living room, waiting for her to finish saying their goodbyes. Once the three of them are the only ones in the living room, Gavin shakes his head. “Are you going to explain to me what the _fuck_ is going on now?” He seems crazed, panicked, but Darcy thinks he’s handling it relatively well, and he hasn’t even discovered what’s really going on yet.

Darcy sighs heavily. “I told you there were things you didn’t know about me,” she says, touching his arms and thankful he doesn’t recoil from her. Taking a deep breath, wondering how to say it without sounding insane, she shrugs. “I’m a witch.”

Gavin gives her a blank look, and then laughs heartily. She laughs along weakly with him. “All right, I’ll play along,” he chuckles, albeit very nervously. “Prove it.”

Glancing at Kingsley, Darcy catches sight of him nodding slightly. Slowly, she pulls her wand out and holds her hand palm up. “I can do magic,” she whispers, placing the tip of her wand to the center of her palm. Fluidly, smoothly, a pretty, pink flower blooms from the tip of her wand, and Darcy offers it to him. “I was born one. I’ve always been able to do magic.”

Mouth slightly open, Gavin takes a small step backwards. “How did you—how did you do that?”

“I told you, I’m a witch.”

Kingsley clears his throat and Darcy looks over at him. The bald wizard taps the watch around his wrist, looking almost apologetic—or maybe just awkward. Gavin eyes Kingsley warily, unsure of what to say, how to react. The color has drained from his face. Darcy puts her wand away and puts the flower in Gavin’s clammy palm, closing his fingers over it. “What are they going to do to me?” he asks her desperately. “What’s going to happen to me?”

“They’ll modify your memory,” Darcy explains, trying to be as gentle as possible.

Kingsley takes a step forward, holding his hands in front of him. “You will remember nothing of tonight,” he adds calmly, as if this is something very routine. “Mad-Eye Moody previously suggested putting you into hiding, so be thankful it’s only this.”

“That—that man—he said it was for my safety. Why would I need to go into hiding?” Gavin replies. “Why?”

“It’s a long story,” Darcy frowns. “And you won’t remember it anyway.” She brushes his hair out of his face, forcing herself to give him a small, reassuring smile. “Maybe we’ll see each other again next summer. Maybe we could—try again, when things are different.”

The sentiment seems to soothe him, to ease the shock. Gavin continues to look at her with his brow furrowed, as if seeing her for the first time, but his pale eyes are warm and kindly. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?” Gavin tries to seem chipper, but there’s fear written plain across his face.

Darcy shrugs. “Now you know my deep, dark secret.” She wraps her arms around herself. For reasons unknown even to herself, Darcy’s eyes well with tears, and she swallows the lump in her throat. _Even Gavin is being taken away from me. Can I have nothing in this world_? “I’m sorry.”

Gavin sighs, shaking his head. The corners of his lips are upturned very slightly. “This boy of yours,” he mutters. “Does he always watch you so...intently?”

Darcy turns towards the kitchen. When she catches Lupin staring, he looks away quickly, his cheeks slightly pink. She sighs, smiling back at Gavin. “It’s you he’s staring at.” Standing on her tiptoes, Darcy places a soft kiss to his cheek. “Goodbye, Gavin.”

“ _Potter_!” Moody growls from the kitchen, and Darcy jumps. “Kingsley, go do it now. We’re running out of time. Potter—help Smythe with your things.”

Kingsley crosses the living room in a few long strides, clapping a hand on Gavin’s shoulder and leading him to the front door. Darcy watches them until the door closes behind Kingsley, and then walks slowly up the stairs to her bedroom. Gemma is just walking out of Darcy’s bedroom, Max’s cage and her trunk floating behind.

“Wait,” Darcy says, stopping her halfway down the narrow hallway. “My pictures—”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got them,” Gemma answers, giving her a sly smile. “Go on, do a spot check. I’ll meet you back downstairs.” She makes to go down the stairs, but stops, turning to face Darcy again. “Sorry to surprise you tonight. That Gavin—he’s handsome, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Darcy says stiffly.

“It’s been a nightmare at headquarters with Lupin there. Whenever he’d come back from watch duty, it would be, ‘Gavin did this’ and ‘Gavin did that’.” She lets Darcy’s things flutter to the ground, moving a bit closer to her. “Wouldn’t you know, just Monday, he comes up to me claiming this Muggle boy had charmed you right out of your clothes.”

Darcy blushes. “He shouldn’t have watched that. Besides, nothing happened.”

Gemma chuckles. “I asked him if Gavin was a handsome Muggle, at least. He hasn’t spoken to me properly since. Only that angry face he makes. The one specifically saved for me.”

She knows the face. “Why were you with Remus? Why is he responsible for letters you receive?”

“We just came to rescue you, and that’s the first question you think to ask me?” Gemma asks, frowning. “I haven’t been with him—all of us are at headquarters quite often, so he would have been able to pass along letters to me.”

Harry and Tonks shuffle out of the other bedroom, Harry’s things held between them. Darcy and Gemma press flat against the walls to let them pass, waiting until they’re out of earshot to continue.

“What is it?” Darcy presses, and Gemma cocks a thin eyebrow. “Headquarters of what? What’s been going on? Why are there so many people here?”

“It was Tonks’s idea really,” Gemma explains, but it irritates Darcy to know that’s the first question she decides to answer. “Your aunt and uncle were lured out of the house so we—your guard—could collect you. As for headquarters, that’s where we’re taking you tonight. You’ll love it—I know you will.”

“And how are we getting to headquarters?”

Gemma wriggles her eyebrows. “Broomsticks, of course.”

Darcy runs a hand through her hair. “I can’t fly. You know that.”

Gemma only hums, frowning. “When we get back, I’ll fix your face properly, all right? I like to keep some things at headquarters in case of something like this.”

“Thanks.” And within seconds, both she and Gemma are wrapped in each other’s arms. Darcy sighs heavily, closing her eyes. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Gemma pulls away, nodding and grinning. “Me too.”

They fall back into silence as someone comes starting up the stairs. Darcy glances over Gemma’s shoulder, surprised to find Lupin looking at her, making his way slowly nearer the landing at the top of the stairs. He gives Gemma a pointed glare, and she takes that as her cue to leave them, but not without making a big deal out of it and sighing dramatically a few times, Darcy’s luggage following her. Darcy’s trunk bounces loudly down the stairs, Max’s cage rattling.

Lupin hesitates, taking a step closer. His eyes quickly fall upon her cheek. He lifts a hand to brush his fingers over her bruise, looking pained. Darcy closes her eyes at his touch, something out of a dream. “Your face…” he sighs. Lupin lowers his hand abruptly, and Darcy’s eyes snap open.

“It’s nothing,” she tells him, blushing furiously. “Gemma said she’d fix it. It doesn’t matter.”

He frowns deeply, the premature lines upon his face making him seem much older than she’d last seen him in June. Only a few months, a few weeks, and there’s more gray in his hair—or had it always been there and she just hadn’t noticed?—and the shadows are back under his eyes, his face drawn and pale. Darcy pauses, turning away from him and making for her bedroom. She opens a few drawers, checks her closet, the hiding places under her bed and the loose floorboard. Gemma has, in fact, collected the pictures of Darcy and Lupin, along with most everything else. Lupin follows her, his hands deep in his pockets, looking around at the nearly bare walls, now devoid of any photographs.

“Darcy, if I could have, I would have come for you sooner,” he says softly, closing the bedroom door. “Why didn’t you answer my letter? I told you to answer right away if Vernon was hitting you. Why didn’t you?”

Darcy shrugs, not wanting to admit the real reason she’d ignored his request. It’s not good enough for him, and Lupin’s eyebrows shoot expectantly to his hairline, waiting for an answer. She suddenly feels sixteen-years-old again, with Professor McGonagall in front of her asking for an explanation as to why she’d been out of bed, drunk.

“Darcy, half your face is bruised, you’ve got a black eye,” Lupin says again, exasperated with her. “When did this happen? Why?”

“I said it doesn’t matter,” Darcy snaps, pushing past him. Lupin grabs her wrist, stopping her, pulling her away from the door. “What are you doing? Let me go, Remus Lupin, now.”

“Tell me the truth,” he growls, his voice a low rumble. It sends shivers down Darcy’s spine and excites her—Darcy shakes the feeling off, hating herself. “Why did he do this to you?”

“Does Vernon need a reason?” Darcy asks quickly, not intending to tell him it was his fault she’d been hit, and still trying to pry Lupin’s strong fingers off her wrist. As much as she enjoys his touch, she needs to break free before she does or says something stupid. “Please, let go of me.”

At once, he releases her, holding up his hands in surrender. Darcy rubs at her wrist—his had been a firm grip, but more gentle and loving than Vernon’s by far. She wants to hug him, to feel the warmth of his arms around her, to listen to him whisper in her ear and promise that everything will all be all right.

“I want you to show you something.”

Lupin nods, and Darcy opens the bedroom door, urging him to follow. He does, across the hall and into the threshold of Harry’s room. Lupin chuckles, looking at the two photographs of Harry and Darcy on the dresser, of them at three and seven-years-old, taken over one of the rainiest summers Privet Drive has ever known.

“This is the bedroom we were given when we first came here,” she explains, opening the closet and showing Lupin the years old bassinet still inside. He moves to her side, looking down at it. “This is the one he used to sleep in—right next to my bed. And here…” Darcy kneels at the foot of the bed, pulling up another loose floorboard. The small space is full of dust, neglected after Darcy had been given the guest room, but a few small things remain—a crumpled up drawing Harry had done for her as a toddler; some fake flowers Harry had pulled from a vase in the living room when he was younger to give to Darcy; a yellowing, fading photograph of Darcy as a newborn babe, held in the arms of Aunt Petunia. Darcy looks at the picture for a long time, having forgotten she owned it.

“I thought you weren’t going to come,” she confesses softly, trying very hard not to cry. Darcy replaces the floorboard, getting to her feet. “I thought you were going to leave me here.”

“Of course I was going to come for you,” he answers, smiling weakly. “Darcy, I could hate you with everything that I have and I would still come for you if you sent me a bloodstained letter like you did.” His smile fades, and he sighs deeply. “Your letter frightened me.”

“I didn’t mean to scare anyone,” she says. “I was just afraid and Vernon had just finished—I just needed to leave.”

“Well, you’re leaving now, and you won’t be coming back until next summer.”

“I don’t want to come back.” Darcy furrows her brow, looking up into his face. She almost reaches up to touch him—almost, but the urge dies when she thinks of Vernon. “I never want to come back here.”

Lupin looks around nervously, wetting his lips. He reaches for the door and pulls it open for her, but Darcy hesitates. All she wants to do is kiss him over and over and over, to fall into his chest and let his arms wrap around her, to comfort and soothe her. “Once we get back to headquarters, I’ll explain everything to you. I know it’s all been very confusing, but I’d rather not say too much here,” he whispers, urging Darcy into the hallway. “Bring a jacket—it’ll be cold while we’re flying.”

“I can’t fly a broomstick,” Darcy says, blushing again, but darting into her room once more and grabbing a coat regardless.

“I know, it’s all right. You can ride with one of us.”

“Why can’t I just Apparate there?”

“Mad-Eye prefers to keep you and Harry together,” Lupin says patiently, almost a different man than the one he’d been upon first entering the house. She’s sure it has something to do with the position he’d found her in with Gavin, but Darcy quite likes Lupin being kind to her instead of cold and hard. “Since Harry is still underage, they’d be able to find him if he Apparates anywhere, and we don’t want anyone to find out where we’ll be going. If there was another way, I’d tell you.”

“Oh.” Darcy purses her lips. “I’ll ride with Harry.”

Lupin follows her down the stairs, and Darcy thinks she feels his fingertips ghost against the small of her back as she reaches the bottom and rounds the corner back towards the kitchen. “As you wish.”

Upon entering the kitchen, Lupin asks Darcy for a pen and paper; she digs around in one of the drawers and gives him what he needs. She watches over his shoulder curiously for a moment, reads the small and messy handwriting explaining to Aunt Petunia and Vernon what’s happened to their niece and nephew. Darcy makes a sudden noise, and Lupin’s hand freezes as goes to sign his name. “You shouldn’t do that,” she warns him. He looks over his shoulder at her, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t sign your name.”

“I’m sure they’d like to know who you and Harry are with,” Lupin replies, making to sign his name. “Your aunt is familiar with me. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you’re in my company.” Darcy catches sight of the watch glittering on his wrist and her heart leaps in her throat.

Darcy grabs the pen right out of his hand, tossing it onto the counter behind her. “Don’t. Please.” She wraps her arms around herself. “Just—trust me.”

“Come on,” Moody announces, opening the back door. “The first signal should be any minute…Potter, I’ve heard tell you can’t fly a broomstick.”

Everyone looks at her curiously, in disbelief, as if she’s suddenly sprouted another head. Tonks—her purple hair now a bright, violent pink, looks more than shocked; the witches and wizards she hadn’t been introduced to mumble to themselves; Kingsley doesn’t seem bothered, nor does Mad-Eye, but it’s humiliating all the same. At least Gemma gives her a small smile before returning to examining her fingernails. It makes her face burn with embarrassment and Darcy looks down at her feet. “No, sir,” she confesses, glancing up at Harry. “I thought I might ride with my brother.”

Harry nods at Mad-Eye, his Firebolt held at his side. “She can ride with me.”

Mad-Eye urges everyone out into the backyard, lingering in the kitchen as they all file out. Gemma tries to stay with Darcy, but Moody prods her in the back and forces her out into the summer air. Kingsley is one of the last to leave, and Darcy reaches out to tug on his sleeve. She has to look up to look into his face, so tall is he. “Is Gavin all right? His friends—”

“Gavin is fine,” Kingsley assures, and his voice is so comforting that it almost shocks her. He pulls his sleeve out of Darcy’s loose grip, smiling down at her as one might smile at an innocent child. “He won’t remember anything you told him tonight and is under the impression that you’ve gone back to school.” And with that, Kingsley follows the rest of the guard out into the yard.

Mad-Eye Moody scrunches what’s left of his nose as the sight of Darcy. He walks over to her and puts a heavy hand on her scarred shoulder, either not feeling or caring about them. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he grunts, walking her out into the back garden—the beautiful garden she’d spent so much time tending this summer. “You shouldn’t feel ashamed of not being able to fly. I’m sure there’s lots of things you can do that even I can’t do.”

“Maybe,” she shrugs.

“Maybe?” To Darcy’s surprise, Moody laughs, and she finds it isn’t as rough as she’d pictured it to be. “Potter, you’re able to spend an entire year with Snape at your side—that’s an achievement in itself.”

This makes Darcy smile, and he gives her a gentle push towards Harry. Harry instructs her to sit behind him, and she does. Moody begins to bark directions as everyone mounts their brooms. Gemma seems a bit nervous, but far more confident than Darcy could ever look seated upon a broomstick, and Darcy’s trunk and Max’s cage is buckled to Gemma’s broom.

“Listen, Potters,” Moody says again. “I’ll be behind you, Smythe will be above, Lupin below, Tonks in front. Stay in position, and don’t break rank if any of us are killed.”

Harry looks over his shoulder to give his sister a wild and crazed and confused look all at once. They speak together. “Is that likely?”

“No one is going to die,” Kingsley answers, giving both Harry and Darcy a roll of his eyes.

“Quit scaring them, Mad-Eye,” Tonks retorts sharply. “We already broke into their house unexpected and unannounced and scared Darcy awake. Let’s get going already.”

“There’s the first signal,” Lupin announces quickly.

Darcy looks up at the sky to find red sparks exploding like fireworks. She wraps her arms around Harry’s middle, her heart beating faster—faster—faster. Of course Harry would have the fastest broomstick out of everyone, and she’s sure once he kicks off the ground, she’ll freeze up. Darcy says a quick prayer, begging whoever is listening to keep her on the broomstick.

“Just hold on tight,” Harry says to her, as if he’d read her mind. “Hold on tight and it’ll be fine.”

Lupin’s voice sounds from behind again. “Second signal!”

She sees the green sparks flash high above them in the clear sky, but before she can prepare herself for take off, Harry has already pushed off the ground. Darcy screams, and around her, half her guard tries to shush her while the other half—Gemma, Tonks, Lupin, and Kingsley—laugh heartily at Darcy’s reaction. She can even feel the vibrations of Harry’s chuckle with her arms around him tight enough to squeeze his head right off. Darcy shuts her eyes tight as Privet Drive shrinks beneath them, and she wonders how anyone could possibly find riding a broomstick fun or even comfortable. The garden is shrinking, and she wonders if she’ll be able to see Gavin—with a freshly modified memory—but it’s dark now and it’s hard to see anything as Darcy and Harry speed higher and higher. As Mad-Eye leads them even higher than that, out of sight of Muggles and away from small towns where the lights are reminiscent of spiderwebs, Darcy’s heart pounds against Harry’s back violently.

“Hey—check this out!” Gemma shouts, and Darcy’s eyes flutter open to catch sight of Gemma above her. She flips upside down, hanging from the broomstick with her thighs wrapped tight around the stick. Her cloak falls over her head, but she’s laughing as Tonks wolf-whistles from in front, looking over her shoulder.

“ _SMYTHE_!” Mad-Eye yells, and Gemma flips herself right side up again, still laughing. It would be very funny to hear Mad-Eye so exasperated with Gemma if Darcy wasn’t so afraid of falling.

Darcy’s glad she’s taken Lupin’s advice about bringing a jacket. Even with the light coat about her, the wind is still freezing cold. Harry, who hadn’t been forewarned by Tonks, shivers against her, tears streaming from his eyes as the wind hits him full in the face. Her dark red hair whips behind her, leaving her ears to fall victim to the near icy chill, and soon they begin to hurt in earnest, but she dares not release Harry to cover them.

So glad is she to be rid of Privet Drive that she might even laugh, but opening her mouth is a chore. She’d much rather be riding Buckbeak—at least then, she’d had somewhere to put her feet, a more comfortable seat, and his feathers were soft and warm. When she buries her face in Harry’s shoulder, the height making her feel faint, Harry turns his head just barely to look quickly at Darcy. “All right?” he asks loudly, and his hot breath overwhelms her.

“I’m fine—can we go any faster?” she shrieks, wanting to arrive as quickly as possible, before she freezes to the broomstick. Darcy lifts her head, forcing herself not to look down. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

“ _We_ can,” Harry grins, and the sight of him smiling for the first time in so long puts Darcy at ease. “They can’t, though. Are you going to make up with Lupin now?”

“It’s none of your business, Harry!”

“How come Gavin was at the house tonight?”

“It’s none of your business—”

“We can hear you, you know!” Gemma calls from up above.

Darcy blushes again, too embarrassed to turn around and look at Lupin. She’s glad he doesn’t seem very abashed, and he tells them quickly, “Follow Tonks, Harry! It’s time to start the descent!”

How long have they been flying anyway? Darcy tries to check her watch, but she’s too terrified to loosen her grip around her brother. And besides, she’d been too distracted to even take notice of the time when they’d left. Everything had happened so quickly—Gavin’s memory had been modified, much to her horror; Lupin had come to rescue her, just like she dreamed he would; she was flying over cities and towns, flying a broomstick high above the ground, something she’s never done before.

Tonks begins to dive towards the many orange and yellow lights and Harry follows. Darcy opens her mouth to scream, but it’s so dry that no sound comes out. Her eyes sting painfully, tears coming faster as they race towards the ground. She closes her eyes again as Harry continues to follow Tonks at an unbelievably fast speed and finally, they begin to slow. Tonks lands first upon a large patch of dry grass and Darcy feels it’s safe to open her eyes when she feels her feet touch the ground. She nearly throws herself off the broomstick and everyone else lands around her.

Gemma chuckles, shaking her head at Darcy. “Your eyes were closed the whole time,” she teases. “You didn’t see any of my cool tricks.”

“Everyone saw your cool tricks,” Mad-Eye huffs, making Gemma raise an eyebrow. “Even the Muggles down below.”

“You know, the fake Moody never gave me such grief,” Gemma jokes, but Mad-Eye ignores her.

Darcy trembles visibly, trying to warm herself. Despite the still, humid, summer air, Darcy’s ears still burn from the cold and her face stings. She jumps when something is draped around her shoulders, and when she looks up as goes to thank Lupin, drawing his cloak tighter around her, he walks away to help Tonks with Harry’s trunk. Gemma and Kingsley lift Darcy’s things, following Lupin and Tonks onto the pavement.

“What is this place? Where are we?” Darcy asks no one in particular, looking around and receiving a hard poke on the back from Mad-Eye, indicating that she should follow the others. She gives Harry a sideways look and they walk shoulder to shoulder to the pavement themselves.

The houses in front of them are not the prettiest houses she’s even seen—in fact, they look near abandoned. Windows are broken and only a few dim lights are turned on inside. The outside of each row home is dirty and unkempt, and Darcy wonders what Aunt Petunia would say if she could see the sorry state of the small gardens at the front of each home, overgrown with weeds and dying flowers, ivy climbing up the sides of the houses.

“Here.” Mad-Eye Moody says as Darcy and Harry reach Gemma’s side. “Memorize this.”

Darcy peers down at the parchment Mad-Eye stuffs into Harry’s hand. Her brother unfolds it warily, exchanging a look with his sister before reading it to himself.

_The headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._

Looking up at the houses, Darcy reads the numbers. She sees number eleven and number thirteen, with nothing in the middle. Hoping Gemma has her answer, she finds Gemma just smiling impishly. “I told you,” she murmurs. “You’re going to love this.”

“Think about what you’ve read,” Lupin smiles, taking note of the looks on Harry and Darcy’s faces.

Darcy looks carefully at number eleven and number thirteen, and as she opens her mouth to ask him what the hell he’s talking about, when the houses begin to shift—Muggles inside don’t seem to take notice, and no one besides she and Harry seem surprised at this. A front door appears, windows, forcing numbers eleven and thirteen apart. And within seconds, Darcy sees the new home, identical to all the others, and the number beside the front door—number twelve.

“What is this place?” Darcy whispers.

Gemma sighs happily. “Welcome to headquarters, Darcy.”


	5. Chapter 5

The inside of the house is just as foreboding as the outside. As soon as the door closes behind the large group of witches and wizards, Moody has the gas lamps that line the dusty walls of the corridor flicker to life, casting shadows all around. Lupin takes his cloak off from around Darcy’s shoulders, hanging it on one of several bent and worn coat racks, already draped with several cloaks already. A chill settles over her that has nothing to do with cold, and she lets everyone pass her; Lupin and Tonks carry Harry’s things to the end of the corridor, setting them at the base of a carpeted staircase, and Gemma and Kingsley do the same with Darcy’s. She follows them, looking around the walls at the aged and uncared for portraits, and when a small spider drops down from the chandelier overhead, Darcy shudders, wiping furiously at the back of her neck, which suddenly tickles.

As she takes a single step closer to the end of the hallway, Darcy hears a familiar fluttering and ruffling of wings, and Max soars over the heads of she and Harry’s guard, landing on her shoulder and nipping affectionately at her earlobe. Darcy smiles, rubbing under his beak, where she knows he likes to be rubbed the best. As he nuzzles into her face, Tonks reaches out to stroke his wings.

“Beautiful owl,” she notes, grinning as Max turns his head around to peck at her fingers. Tonks pulls her hand away, unbothered by his display. “Remus says his name is Max.”

Darcy nods, but is saved from a conversation as the door at the end of the corridor opens, and Mrs. Weasley comes barreling out of it. She embraces Harry first, who’s closer to her, kissing him hard on the top of the head. She has to stand on her toes to reach now with Harry having grown a little taller. Max flutters from her shoulder to the bannister in order to survey the scene.

“Harry, it’s so good to see you!” she beams, but Darcy doesn’t think her heart is really in the smile. “You look a bit peaky, but you’ll have to wait a little until dinner.” It’s then that she sees Darcy, her hand jumping up to cup her cheek. Her face goes stark white and she gives all the others a stern look, as if it’s their fault Darcy has arrived in such a terrible state. “Darcy, are you all right? Gemma will be able to fix up your face in a little while.”

When Darcy wraps her arms around Mrs. Weasley, she doesn’t fail to notice that she’s lost weight—whether from stress or other ways, she isn’t sure. “Is Mr. Weasley here?” she asks.

“Yes, yes—I’ll have him fetch you for dinner.” She releases Darcy and whispers to the other witches and wizards, “He’s just arrived. The meeting’s already started.”

As everyone files into the other room urgently, Mrs. Weasley stops both Darcy and Harry as they trail after Lupin.

“No, no, no,” Mrs. Weasley tells them briskly, a hand upon their shoulders. “This meeting is only for those in the Order. Ron and Hermione are upstairs waiting for you—I’ll show the both of you to your rooms, then I must rejoin the meeting…”

“ _No_ ,” comes Lupin’s voice, his eyes flicking over Darcy and Harry in turn. “Come, Darcy. She stays.”

A heavy silence falls over the four of them and Mrs. Weasley’s grip tightens on Darcy’s shoulder. “What about me?” Harry snaps, and Lupin raises his eyebrows. “If Darcy can go in, then why can’t I?”

“She doesn’t know what’s happening,” Mrs. Weasley protests, her eyes cold when she looks at Lupin. “She won’t understand.”

“I’m afraid I must insist,” Lupin replies coolly. He takes a few steps forward and puts a hand on the nape of her neck, much the same way Snape typically does. Mrs. Weasley’s hand falls from Darcy’s shoulder, but she still grips Harry tight. “She’s the same age her parents were when they first joined the Order. The same age as Gemma—” He nods towards the room, as if to point her out. “She comes. I’m sorry, Harry. We won’t be long.”

Harry fumes, but holds his tongue, giving Darcy a sharp look as he follows Mrs. Weasley up the stairs. Darcy holds her arm out for Max, who eagerly flies over to her, his talons wrapping around her forearm. They’re sharp things that have cut her arms up several—possibly several _hundred_ —times, but she doesn’t mind.

Before Lupin leads Darcy inside, he clears his throat. “This is headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix,” he explains in a whisper. “We’re a secret society headed by Dumbledore. We all fought in the first war, and he’s revived the group to fight now and he’s brought in a few new recruits, as well.”

“Aren’t you worried that I’ll tell Harry?” Darcy asks, raising an eyebrow.

Lupin gives her a firm look, his lips pressed tight together. “Darcy,” he begins, and she knows that whatever he’s going to say, she will not like it. “I know you want to fight, and I see nothing wrong with you joining the Order, however much I dislike the idea. You are of age, and truly your parents’ daughter. However—I have vouched for you after there have been others who disagreed with bringing you into meetings. _We_ will tell Harry what he needs to know, and I hope you will not betray my trust by telling him everything.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk to me like you’re my teacher,” Darcy hisses. “Like you’re my father.”

Lupin sighs, frustrated, holding his hands out as if prepared to shake some sense in her. “I’m not trying to—” He gives an exasperated growl. “Just promise me, Darcy. I want you to be a part of this, but you need to promise me that you won’t ruin it for yourself.”

Darcy’s stomach backflips. “Okay. I promise.”

“Any questions you have afterwards, I would be glad to answer,” he continues, opening the door to the room behind him, “but please wait until the meeting is over, understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.” Darcy’s heart flutters in her chest at these words of praise. “We’ll have Gemma fix your face for you. And leave Max. Come.”

Darcy is disappointed as she shoos Max away, but thinks it’s better to appease Lupin at the moment. Her anxiety peaks as she crosses the threshold. She isn’t sure what she expects to find in the other room, but it’s not this. She’s swarmed instantly with someone with blonde hair, thin arms wrapping around her neck. Darcy stumbles backwards into Lupin; he steadies her before taking a seat at the long table, in between Professor McGonagall and an elderly wizard she doesn’t know. Emily pulls away from Darcy, holding her at arm's length, looking her over critically.

Over Emily’s shoulder, Darcy sees several people jump to their feet—Professor Snape’s seat groans against the hard floor as he looks at her; Mr. Weasley is next on his feet, looking deeply troubled; and at the head of the table, half in shadow, Sirius looks at her curiously, his chest heaving. But there are many still in their seats—mostly people she’s never met, but some that she does know. All of her guard are seated at the table, joined by Bill Weasley, who flashes her a warm smile. And standing at the opposite end of the table from Sirius, Albus Dumbledore stands with his hands folded behind his back, examining her with his bright, blue eyes.

“Darcy—your face—you’ve gotten so skinny—I wanted to go with them to get you, but I couldn’t make it in time—”

“Let her sit, Em,” Gemma calls from the table. “Let me fix her face.”

Emily lowers her hands, but Darcy’s in too much shock to register what is actually happening. She resumes her seat at the end of the table, at Tonks’s other side. But Darcy has eyes for only one of the men who are still standing; while Snape and Mr. Weasley lower themselves back into their seats, Darcy walks slowly over to Sirius, his arms outstretched. She falls into his chest, the feeling of his arms around her the best feeling she’s known all summer. Darcy almost cries when she rests her head against her godfather’s shoulder, closing her eyes.

“Sirius—” she breathes, as Sirius kisses her head. Darcy pulls away, feeling everyone’s eyes on the back of her head, looking him over. He looks well, for lack of a better word. He’s definitely looking well-groomed, his facial hair trimmed up and clean, his hair shorter than the last time she’d seen him at Hogwarts, and he’s dressed in clean and expensive looking wizard’s robes. “What are you doing here?”

Sirius opens his mouth to speak, but Dumbledore interrupts them, not unkindly. “I’m very glad to have you with us, Darcy, but if you would please have a seat, perhaps we could continue,” he announces. Darcy blushes, allowing Gemma to take her by the hands and push her into an empty seat between Snape and Gemma’s own seat. “You will have plenty of time to catch up after the meeting.”

Darcy nods, watching Gemma open a small box and removing a few ingredients and a ceramic pestle and mortar. “Something of my own making,” she whispers to Darcy. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She shakes her head, blindly trusting Gemma and not feeling at all very nervous.

“As I was saying,” Snape says, clearing his throat and giving Darcy a sideways look. “They’ve been heavily recruiting as of right now—with many still in Azkaban, their numbers are far lower than last, but...there is no denying their tactics are far more _convincing_ than our own.”

“Those that are being tortured and blackmailed into becoming Death Eaters may be easier to sway,” one older witch pipes up, causing a wave of murmurs across the table. Gemma continues to smash a few ingredients together, creating a bitter smell as it steaks slightly, forming a thick paste. “We could offer them and their families protection in return for joining us.”

“It’s too risky to even attempt to sway Death Eaters,” another wizard counters, a pointy hat atop his head. “How would we know which ones want out?”

“Those people would likely rather die than join us, however much they may want to,” Lupin protests, his voice hoarse, but confident. “Death is nothing to what Voldemort would do to them if they were to join. Death would be much more preferable to torture, personally.”

Darcy stares at him across the table, her jaw clenched. She’s always admired the way he says Voldemort’s name aloud, never flinching, never frightened, always armed with the knowledge it’s just a name. But that’s not what Gemma says. _It’s not just a name_. When Lupin lifts his eyes from the table again, he catches her looking, smiling very weakly at her. It’s a sad smile, and she forces herself to look away.

“Dumbledore is the only person You-Know-Who was ever scared of,” the older witch says again, banging a spotted and bony fist onto the table. “If we offer protection for families wishing to join the fight against You-Know-Who—”

“We should at least try to protect the children,” Professor McGonagall adds, nodding in agreement. “Surely there are others like Smythe? Surely there are children who are in danger.”

“There aren’t many like me,” Gemma admits sheepishly. “My parents have always tried their best to keep me separated from their...extracurricular activities. Most parents are quite open with their children. They’re raising a new generation of Death Eaters.”

“Your parents,” Tonks says suddenly. “Could they possibly be swayed?”

“No,” Gemma says brusquely. “They’re afraid. They won’t abandon You-Know-Who again. Not while he’s in power.”

The wizard with the hat cuts her off. “If we misplace our trust in someone, or approach the wrong person—even just one person could be our undoing—”

Gemma looks up to find the wizard staring at her with narrowed eyes. She scoffs. “If you mean _me_ —”

“I do not believe there is any reason for us to mistrust our fellows, especially one who has proven time and time again to be a spectacular friend to our dear Darcy,” Dumbledore says, putting an end to it and giving Gemma a smile while she isn’t looking. “Gemma, I believe you have news for us regarding the Death Eaters?”

Mrs. Weasley suddenly enters the kitchen again, sitting down quickly beside her husband and giving Darcy a sharp glare.

Gemma nods, scooping a handful of the paste and applying it to Darcy’s face. “I do,” she answers, not taking her eyes off Darcy’s cheek. The paste is cooler than she’d thought it would be and it’s a very welcome feeling. “Not all, but many Death Eaters will be gathered at my parents’ estate for a gala next Saturday. A week from now.”

The wizard who had been suspicious of Gemma cuts in again. Darcy frowns at him—long-necked with small, beady eyes. “And you’ll be there, I’m sure? With all of those Death Eaters?”

“Of course I’ll be there,” Gemma snaps, applying a heavy glob of the light orange paste under Darcy’s bruised eye. “The gala is being thrown _for_ me.” She hesitates, distracting herself by working on Darcy. “My parents are eager to see me marry, and with the threat of You-Know-Who lingering above their heads, they’d rather see me marry sooner than later.”

Dumbledore hums. “And what say you about a marriage, Gemma?”

Gemma pauses, her fingers still on Darcy’s cheek. They look at each other, and it’s clear to Darcy that Gemma had not expected being asked for her opinion. “Marriage is fine,” she says finally. “But I would rather not be married off to the son of Death Eaters.”

“I think all of us are in agreement with you,” Dumbledore says gravely, inclining his head. “Secure an invitation for Severus. I want another set of eyes there.”

“I’ll have my parents owl one as soon as I get home.” She and Professor Snape nod politely at each other over Darcy’s head. Gemma grabs a rag from her ingredients kit and wipes the paste away, grinning. Darcy touches her cheek as Gemma seats herself beside her. “The Malfoys’ will likely be there. They’re almost always at every gala—Mr. Malfoy is generous with his donations to St Mungo’s, and my parents often hold galas in St Mungo’s name.”

“What about the boy? Draco?” Lupin asks suddenly. “His friends—Crabbe’s son, and Goyle’s. They’ll know you’re friends with Darcy.”

“You know Draco Malfoy from school, away from his father,” Gemma retorts. “Mr. Malfoy inspires fear, even in his son. Vincent and Gregory won’t be there, anyway. You think their parents would allow those vile children to go to any sort of gala? You think my parents would _invite_ such scum to any sort of gala?”

“Enough, enough!” Mad-Eye Moody, skulking in the corner, taps his wooden leg hard against the floor to restore order. “I’ve already spoken to Smythe about—”

“What about Wormtail?”

It’s the first time Sirius has spoken up, and Darcy finds herself yearning to hear an answer. She’s curious now, not having thought about Peter’s whereabouts very often.

“ _Peter_ ,” Gemma replies, in a much softer tone, “is a current mystery to me. If my parents know where he has gotten to, they have not told me.”

“What you mean they _haven’t told you_?” A short, heavy man with ginger hair near Sirius suddenly procures a pipe from the inside of his cloak. “You’re one of ‘em, aren’t ya? You ain’t telling us something—”

“I am _not_ one of them.” Gemma’s voice is calm, but rage flashes across her face, making her more beautiful, more terrifying. “I’m telling you everything they tell me. You seem friendly enough with Sirius, Dung—why should I be any different?”

Everyone begins to mutter, adding their voices to Gemma’s and the dirty wizard at the end. Kingsley calls for quiet, Mad-Eye Moody taps his wooden leg, Professor McGonagall heartily defends Gemma. Darcy remains silent, feeling as if in a dream. Had she really fallen asleep with Gavin tonight? Had she really only been at Privet Drive just hours ago? To her left, Snape watches the argument with a bored expression, and Lupin runs a hand down his face, trying to talk Gemma down.

Dumbledore’s voice overpowers them all. “ _Enough_.” He looks around at everyone, peering down his crooked nose in a disappointed sort of way. “We must not fight amongst ourselves, lest we are doomed.” That seems to put an end to it immediately. “Miss Duncan,” Dumbledore begins again, looking to Emily. “Any news from the _Prophet_?”

“The Ministry has taken over,” Emily confesses, meeting Darcy’s eyes across the table for a split second. “Nothing gets published without them looking it over first. Anything that involves Voldemort is thrown away immediately. There’ve been a few new changes to staff, as well. I recognize them from the Ministry. Cuffe is under a lot of stress.”

“I would imagine so.”

“They’re wary of me both at the _Prophet_ and at the Ministry. They know that I’m—close with Darcy.”

“The Ministry grows wary of all of us. Are you still available for guard duty tonight?”

“Yes, sir.”

_Guard duty for what? Harry and I are here now_. Darcy’s eyes find Lupin directly across from her, hoping for answers. He only shakes his head very slightly, pressing a finger to his lips to keep her quiet before she even opens her mouth. Darcy then looks to Sirius, smiling weakly when she finds him looking back.

The rest of the meeting is a mystery to Darcy. Dumbledore seems to try and keep much secretive, speaking vaguely and cryptically. The other Order members seem to know exactly what he’s talking about, and they talk much about the item. Darcy hasn’t a clue what _the item_ is, but Lupin continues to silently urge her to be quiet. All she knows is the item requires guarding, and each person takes it in turns to guard it, sometimes doubling up. Though she isn’t sure where exactly they go or where the item is hidden, it seems everyone does their utmost not to reveal the specifics in front of Darcy. Emily scowls when Dumbledore pairs her with Lupin for Tuesday night duty, and Darcy doesn’t fail to notice that Gemma is not assigned to guard duty at all.

Finally, as everyone begins to grow antsy and hungry, Dumbledore decides to take his leave, not wanting to take up anymore of their time now that Harry has arrived. Many of the unknown witches and wizards get up to leave, shuffling out the door as Dumbledore watches on. And then, he looks directly at Darcy. “A private word, Darcy, if you would. Severus, please wait here for us.” He beckons for her to follow with a long, crooked finger, and she follows Dumbledore out of the kitchen and to the front door. The corridor is empty now, the coat racks bare.

Darcy shifts uncomfortably on her feet, looking everywhere but into Dumbledore’s eyes.

“You’ve been reckless,” he tells her, a little too sternly for her liking. “I thought I gave you very clear instructions—do not leave Privet Drive, keep a close eye on Harry. What happened, Darcy?”

She swallows the lump in her throat that never fails to appear when Dumbledore puts on his disappointed voice. “They were cruel to me,” she whispers. “How could you expect me to stay there all summer when you saw what I looked like just before Gemma fixed it? I was afraid, and Gavin was my friend and Kingsley modified his memory—”

“Darcy, you do not know the anger I felt when I laid eyes upon you tonight. It makes me sick to know the fear you must have felt.” Dumbledore sighs, peering down at her. For the first time, Darcy lifts her eyes to meet his. “Remus has fought hard for you to have a place among us, and I feel there is no reason you should not be welcome at meetings, but I will warn you—if you are not going to adhere to my instructions, then I would ask you not to attend anymore meetings.”

Darcy frowns, hurt. “How can you blame me for wanting to escape the Dursleys for a little while to be with someone who was my friend—?”

“This will end _now_ ,” Dumbledore tells her, and while his voice is firm and stern, it’s understanding. “The stakes are too high for you to be speaking out of turn. Your outburst in June to the Minister of Magic could have ended much worse for you. The consequences of such actions, should you continue, will be dire. I need you to understand that. Your ties with Harry and with Remus does nothing to improve your relations with the Ministry, so you must be on your very best behavior.” He extracts his wand from his robes, using it to open the kitchen door. “Come, Severus.”

Snape strides down the hallway, his cloak flapping behind him. He stops very close to Darcy and they look at each other hard. “Yes, Headmaster?”

“This year, I will tolerate no spats between the two of you.” Dumbledore looks away from Darcy when she blushes. Snape scrunches his nose. “You will work together, without issue. Severus, we have spoken in private about my expectations. Darcy, if I hear that you have been cruel to Professor Snape, you will need to answer for it.”

“Yes, sir,” she replies. This seems enough for Dumbledore. He bids them goodbye and walks out the front door. Snape’s gaze lingers on the door for a moment before snapping back to Darcy. She clears her throat, wrapping her arms around herself protectively. “Is my face back to normal? Be honest.”

Snape nods shortly. “Back to normal.” He seems awkward then, torn between staying and racing through the door. “I admit, I...was not expecting to see you in such a state.”

Darcy raises her eyebrows, unsure of how to respond. “Your concern is...noted. Thank you, Professor.”

As soon as Snape takes his leave without another word, Mrs. Weasley hurries up the stairs to collect the younger kids for supper. Darcy’s stomach rumbles loudly at the thought and she clutches it, not having realized how hungry she is. Before she makes it back into the kitchen, both Emily and Gemma appear in the threshold, grabbing hold of Darcy’s arms and pulling her up the stairs.

“Be quiet on the way up,” Emily warns her in a whisper. “Trust me.”

They lead her to a handsomely furnished bedroom, still dusty and clearly not slept in for quite possibly years. Her trunk is at the foot of the bed, along with Max’s cage, but Max is hooting feebly from the top of a large wardrobe. Gemma shoos Max out of the room and locks the door. She tosses a few cigarettes onto the bed and Darcy grabs one greedily, allowing Gemma to light it. Once the three of them get comfortable, Darcy begins.

“Am I dreaming right now?” Darcy looks around the room, thinking. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything at all,” Gemma shrugs. “I want to hear about Gavin. Lupin said he’s going to Cambridge and when I asked Emily about Cambridge, she said it’s supposed to be, like—a really prestigious school—”

“I don’t want to talk about Gavin,” Darcy scoffs, giving Gemma an incredulous look. “Have you two made up? How long have you been having meetings here? Why didn’t you write anything? You didn’t tell us anything and showed up without warning to take us to a place that—I don’t even know what this place is, and—”

“It’s Sirius’s house,” Emily interrupts, and Darcy trails off immediately. “Or rather, it belongs to the Blacks, but he’s the last of them, so it’s his. That’s what he told me, anyway.”

“This is Sirius’s house?” Darcy asks again. Emily nods. She doesn’t know why that particular piece of information makes her so suddenly emotional, but it does.

“Dumbledore didn’t want us telling you anything,” Emily explains, trying to be gentle. “And he especially didn’t want any of that in letters. He made us promise.”

Darcy doesn’t quite know what to say to that. It’s quiet for a moment. Gemma and Emily share a lingering look before Gemma asks, “Why did your uncle hit you, Darcy?”

“It was nothing,” Darcy snaps. “It’s done. It’s over. Everyone’s already looking at me like I’m dying.”

Darcy hears faint footsteps outside the door, coming closer. Emily jumps, putting her cigarette out quickly on the bottom of her shoe, while Gemma does the same, trying to Vanish the smoke around them. “Put it out, Darcy, it’s probably Mrs. Weasley,” Emily hisses, taking the cigarette right out of Darcy’s mouth.

But the footsteps stop abruptly as there’s a loud _CRASH_! from down below, and suddenly someone is screaming, but it isn’t for fear—it’s a shrill voice that seems to be in Darcy’s own head. “... _dirt and vileness_!”

Gemma screws up her face and Emily cringes. “I bet it’s Tonks again,” she chuckles, but Emily doesn’t seem to find it very funny.

“... _befoul the house of my fathers_ …”

And then it stops, as abruptly as it had started. “They’re getting better at shutting her up,” Emily sighs, relieved by the silence. “Usually she goes on for much longer.”

“Wh—what? That was Tonks?”

“No, it’s Sirius’s mother,” Gemma says, like this is common knowledge. “Ugliest portrait I’ve ever seen in my life, loud, prejudiced, and ashamed of all of us. Would you like to go see?”

“They’ve probably got the curtains over her now,” Emily notes, getting up from the bed and to her feet, stretching. “I should go—I’ve got guard duty tonight and I have to stop at home.”

“You can’t go,” Darcy frowns. “You haven’t answered any of my questions!”

“C’mon, Em—just switch with someone,” Gemma groans. “I’m staying here tonight. Stay with us.”

“I switched my last guard duty with Mr. Weasley.” Emily flattens her hair, combing it with her long fingernails. “I can’t switch again.”

Darcy stomach growls and Gemma doesn’t fail to notice. “Let’s get you some food, Darcy.”

She hesitates as Gemma and Emily make to leave the bedroom. _Remus will tell me what I want to know_. And then, an unwanted thought crosses her mind as her legs take her automatically across the room. _I wonder if he’s brought my things from his house_.

By the time Darcy actually reaches the kitchen door, Emily bids them both goodbye, promising to come round the next chance she gets. They watch her go, and Gemma locks the door behind her, turning back to Darcy, pausing in the empty corridor and speaking in a low voice. “What did you think about the meeting?” Gemma asks, crossing her arms over her chest. “Mundungus is a tight git, I swear it. As if he’s ever had anything to contribute to meetings. He doesn’t like me because he tried to make a drunken pass and I—”

“What were you talking about at the end? The thing that’s being guarded? What is it? A weapon? Something that can defeat Voldemort?”

Gemma falters, looking past Darcy nervously towards the kitchen. “Perhaps it’s not my place to say.”

“I’m your best friend,” Darcy argues indignantly. “If you were ever going to give up confidential information, shouldn’t I be the one you give it up to?”

“Darcy, I’m going to be completely honest with you right now.” She sighs heavily, smoothing her dark hair back and grinding her teeth for a moment. “I don’t know as much as you think I do. I don’t know what they’re guarding. I don’t know why it must be guarded. Dumbledore doesn’t tell us much at all, truthfully. You were there during the meeting—he collects our information, sets guard duty, gives instructions, and we are offered no explanation.” Gemma pauses again, pulling Darcy further away from the kitchen and lowering her voice. “We are supposed to blindly trust him, and I don’t think it sits well with many of the Order.”

“You mean people are angry with Dumbledore?” Darcy licks her lips, waiting on an answer.

“I don’t know that they’re angry, but they’re frustrated.” Gemma waits as Mrs. Weasley begins to shout from the kitchen, seemingly at Fred and George. Once she settles, Gemma continues. “We watch a lot. We watch suspected and known Death Eaters, we watch Cornelius Fudge. We aren’t doing anything. We’re just letting You-Know-Who get stronger with no opposition.”

“We aren’t fighting?”

Gemma shakes her head, looking disappointed. “Lupin says we need to trust in Dumbledore, but I thought I signed up to fight, not to sit and wait for them to launch an attack on us. We should be on the offensive—”

“We _were_ on the offensive last time, and we lost half our numbers. Our friends and their families killed in cold blood, without a second thought, without remorse.” Both Darcy and Gemma jump as Lupin leans against the threshold of the kitchen door, his arms folded across his chest. “We don’t have the numbers for an attack, and with the Ministry unwilling to believe Voldemort is back, we would only be hurting our cause. We cannot openly call for a revolution while Cornelius Fudge is the Minister of Magic. Even if we do attack, we are vastly outnumbered.”

“We know who some Death Eaters are,” Gemma counters. “I’m not saying we need to strike for You-Know-Who, but why not Death Eaters? Why isn’t Mad-Eye, Kingsley, or Tonks rounding them up as we speak?”

Lupin takes a few steps closer to them, lowering his voice. “Fudge doesn’t want to believe that Voldemort is back—he won’t send who he sees as former Death Eaters, who have been acquitted, to Azkaban just because Dumbledore says so. Until there is concrete proof—until we can connect them to murders and kidnappings and torture in a way that will make Fudge see reason, then we must not risk revealing ourselves to the Ministry.”

“You trust Dumbledore too much,” Gemma whispers, frowning. “How can you trust him when you don’t even know what his end goal is? He doesn’t tell us anything.”

“He tells us what we need to know—”

“Which is nothing.” Gemma opens her mouth to speak, but closes it almost immediately and clenches her jaw. She gives Darcy a lingering look before brushing past Lupin into the kitchen.

Lupin meets Darcy’s eyes for a moment before he follows Gemma. Darcy hesitates on the staircase, thinking hard about what Gemma has told her, but she’s so tired. So exhausted she can’t think straight, and trying to remember everything from the meeting makes her head throb painfully. She looks around the corridor again, still reeling from the knowledge this is Sirius’s old house, that this will be her home for the rest of the summer until she just return to Hogwarts, to be with Snape instead of Sirius.

“Come get dinner, Darcy,” Mrs. Weasley calls from the kitchen, hissing something to the twins again afterwards. She hears them chuckling.

_This is what I wanted. I wanted to fight, I wanted to be a part of this_. Darcy runs a hand through her hair, her fingers catching on a knot and nearly ripping her hair out. _So why doesn’t it feel right_?


	6. Chapter 6

Darcy feels, if Gemma weren’t here, she might not have joined supper at all.

To her great surprise, Max has sought refuge in the kitchen after being shooed out of Darcy’s bedroom, and is sitting contently and calmly on Lupin’s shoulder as he spoons stew into a bowl for a teary-eyed Mrs. Weasley. She watches Lupin reach into his pocket, holding up a few owl treats for Max to eat from his fingers, as if this is an everyday occurance. Max is careful not to injure his fingers, just like he does with her, but when the owl catches sight of Darcy, he leaves Lupin’s shoulder almost immediately, startling him as his face is assaulted with feathers.

“As sweet as I find your owl, Darcy, please—not at dinner…”

Darcy catches sight of Mrs. Weasley’s very troubled expression and obliges, sending Max back to her bedroom. When she looks around the table, she feels very awkward, wanting to escape the crowded room. Her first instinct is to sit with Sirius, Harry, and Gemma at the end of the table, but when she sees Harry’s stony expression and the anger in his green eyes, she decides against it. She looks then to Mr. Weasley, in conversation with Bill, but when Lupin seats himself beside Mr. Weasley, Darcy can’t bring herself to join him, either. Ron, Fred, George, and the man Darcy now knows to be Mundungus are laughing together, while Tonks entertains Hermione and Ginny by changing her noses with a horrible, twisted look to her.

“Mrs. Weasley?” Darcy asks quietly, and she’s surprised that Mrs. Weasley jumps out of her seat to walk over to Darcy. She rests a plump hand on Darcy’s cheek, looking very concerned. “May I please eat dinner in my room? I’m not feeling well.”

Mrs. Weasley lowers her hand and frowns, pursing her lips. “I don’t see why not. All this talk of You-Know-Who isn’t good for any of us,” she says, very warily. “Let me make you a tray.”

Ten minutes later, Darcy seats herself on her bed with her dinner, but she doesn’t feel very hungry anymore. Max isn’t in her bedroom, much to her displeasure. She looks around the room instead, looking in the wardrobe only to find it’s completely empty and still dusty; there’s a broken Sneakoscope inside the top dresser drawer; in the desk drawer is a pack of cigarettes, a glass ashtray, and a book of matches likely hidden for her by Gemma; there is nothing underneath the bed, no hidden floorboards where things could be stored, the one grimy window on the wall won’t open to allow for fresh air, and she can hear the scuttling of mice inside the walls when she moves too quickly and startles them. There’s an ornate, gold mirror on the wall that’s full of streaks and dust, but Darcy takes a look at herself, admiring her face, admiring Gemma’s work on her cheek.

She thinks of unpacking—of dusting each drawer of the dresser to put away her clothes, but she hesitates when she opens her trunk. This may be home for now, but in a few weeks, she’ll be back at Hogwarts. _Unpacking now will only make it harder to leave_ , she thinks.

Gemma has packed her things rather neatly—she’s always been clean and organized, unlike Darcy who prefers a little clutter. Darcy’s clothes are folded perfectly, and resting on top is her photo album that she had started. All of her photographs are tucked inside, even the taped ones of she and Lupin that Aunt Petunia had returned to her. Darcy pulls both the album and her pictures out, spreading out on the desk and pulling out one of the cigarettes and the ashtray, lighting it with a match.

She takes a long pull, looking through the photographs. She regrets not taking more candid ones of her friends, of her brother, wishing there were more of them and less of she and Lupin. It isn’t a minute later that someone knocks on her door. She tenses for a moment, looking down at the burning cigarette and suspecting Mrs. Weasley, but she doesn’t think Mrs. Weasley would knock—she’s more the type to walk right in, hoping to catch her latest prey doing something they shouldn’t be.

“Come in,” Darcy calls, not looking up from her photographs as the door creaks open.

“Since when have you smoked?”

“I’m sorry,” Darcy tells Sirius quickly, putting her cigarette out in the ashtray, blushing furiously. “I didn’t mean to—I couldn’t get the window open, and—”

Sirius chuckles, holding up a hand to stop her. His smile is dashing, sending a surge of comfort through her. It’s good to see him looking so healthy and handsome, closer to the way he’d been before Azkaban than she’s seen him look since the night of the Shrieking Shack, when they’d reunited. That night seems forever ago, an entire lifetime ago. “I’m not mad, Darcy,” he smiles. “Don’t worry.”

He closes the door behind him, and Darcy picks up her cigarette again, lighting it cautiously as Sirius watches on. “It calms me,” she offers.

“Remus smoked like a chimney at school,” he notes, sitting down on her bed.

This makes Darcy smile. She turns away from her photographs to face her godfather, shifting awkwardly in the hard desk chair. “He never told me that.” And despite the smile on her face, his words make her want to cry.

Sirius seems to realize his mistake too late. “I’m sorry, I…” He sighs heavily, looking so apologetic it’s as if he’s the one that’s been hurt. “Are you all right?”

“That’s a very loaded question, Sirius.” But even as the words tumble from her, she wishes they hadn’t been so bitter and angry. Darcy turns back to her pictures, putting her out her cigarette with unnecessary roughness, and covering her face with her hands. “I have lost Remus, Harry will barely speak with me, I had to spend weeks at Privet Drive without any comfort or reassurance from anyone. I don’t belong here. I look around at you all, so comfortable with each other, like a family, and I can’t figure out where I fit here.”

“Darcy,” Sirius whispers, scoffing. “You belong here more than any of them. You and Harry belong here. Don’t worry about him—I’ll tell him what he needs to know.” He clears his throat, drawing Darcy’s attention again. She wipes her watery eyes, trying to force herself not to cry. When next he speaks, his voice is slightly anxious. “Do you like the bedroom?”

“It’s fine, thank you.”

“It’s yours,” Sirius says again. “If...if you’d like.”

Darcy’s neck turns so quickly it cracks. She looks at Sirius incredulously, her heart beginning to race. “What?”

Sirius exhales awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck and giving a slight shrug. “I know that you’ll be going back to Hogwarts in a few weeks, but…” He hesitates, but Darcy silently urges him to go on, her heart a little lighter. “If you’d like a home to return to on weekends or...you know, whenever you get tired of Hogwarts—”

“I could come here? Whenever I wanted?” she asks, raising her eyebrows and smiling again.

“Of course,” Sirius grins, seeming much happier at the sight of her smile. He falters for a moment, his face hardening. “Dumbledore insists I stay at the house, what with the bounty on my head currently. I haven’t been able to do much for the Order except provide a safe house, but with you here...maybe it won’t be so bad.”

“I could come every weekend if I wanted?”

“Yes.”

“Any day of the week?”

“Yes.”

“I could come here at three in the morning if I wanted?”

Sirius laughs. It comes out hoarse, as if he hasn’t laughed in years. “Yes,” he confirms, nodding his head. “Even at three o’clock in the morning.”

“And for Christmas and Easter? What about my birthday? I could come here to celebrate?”

“Every holiday, every birthday, I promise you,” Sirius continues patiently, “you will always have a place here. Come, Darcy, sit with me.”

Darcy does, moving quickly to sit on her bed beside her godfather. She sits cross legged, facing him and trembling for reasons unknown. Perhaps it’s the idea of a dream come to life—to have a _real_ home with her _real_ family. A place where both she and Harry are welcome and able to make up for all the years they’ve had to live with the Dursleys. For once, she will not be the only one responsible for Harry—she doesn’t have to play the part of a parent, and the thought of that lifts a weight off her shoulders she hadn’t realized she was carrying.

Her desire to stay, to never return to Hogwarts, is stronger than ever. To think that she could live here with Sirius, to enjoy the feeling of having a real family sounds almost too good to be true. _Maybe if I stay, Remus will want to be with me again_. But she thinks of Dumbledore’s expectations, his own desire to see Darcy at Hogwarts, at Snape’s side. She thinks of the obligation she has to Harry, to keep him safe, to give him what comfort she can while he’s hurting. _I have to choose the right thing. Dumbledore trusts me to make the right decision, even if it’s not what I want._

“Why are you so good to me, Sirius? You’re—softer around me than Harry.”

Sirius takes her hands in his. Darcy lets his thumbs brush over her knuckles lightly, squeezing gently. The feeling is one so comforting that for a moment, all of her worries are washed away. For weeks at Privet Drive, she’d dreamt of her father, had ached for James to come to her and wrap his arms around her—and Sirius is able to soothe that ache with just a simple touch. “I was just a boy when you were born, but I remember. Even now, after years in Azkaban, I remember how you took to me, how you’d hold your arms up to be held, how you’d fall asleep against my chest whenever I visited. You weren’t mine, but I loved you like you were.”

“I wish I could remember,” Darcy breathes, feeling the tears welling painfully in her eyes.

Sirius furrows his brow, squeezing her hands. “I want to show you something. Come with me.”

He helps Darcy slowly to her feet and, still holding one of her hands, leads her out of the bedroom and up another flight of steps. They continue climbing until they reach the topmost floor, where only two bedrooms are, both of the doors closed. Sirius leads her to the first door, opening it and letting her inside before closing it behind him.

Darcy looks around the cluttered bedroom, taking in the odd sights—posters hung on the walls of women clad in little more than their underwear and some in bathing suits that Aunt Petunia would _never_ allow her to wear, straddling motorbikes, but they’re all so still—it takes her a moment to realize they’re Muggle posters. Adorning the walls along with posters and a few old fashioned lamps are all sorts of Gryffindor-themed things—pennants and banners, seemingly everything in red and gold. Long, velvet curtains hang from the tall window, and a chandelier hangs from the center of the high ceiling, the candles in the brackets barely stubs, likely not been lit in years. It’s a large room, double the size of her bedroom at Privet Drive, and the bed takes up most of the space. It must be triple the size of her own, with a carved headboard and a single photograph hanging on the wall above it.

As Sirius ruffles through some things in the desk drawer, Darcy looks closer at the photograph. This is the only magical picture in the bedroom, one of four boys at about sixteen-years-old or so, arm in arm with each other. Her eyes are drawn to her father first, dark hair a mess, but a wide smile on his face. Darcy finds it easy to point out the similarities between James and herself in this photograph, but he looks so strikingly like Harry that it almost startles her. Sirius looks handsome as ever, almost carefree with a throwaway grin, being shuffled left and right as they push each other around and laugh silently. Every few seconds, the teenage Sirius flicks his neck to get his long, dark hair out of his face. On Sirius’s other side is Lupin, and Darcy’s heart catches in her throat. He looks so handsome, so ruggedly charming even at sixteen or seventeen. Looking at him makes her want to walk downstairs, back to the kitchen, to kiss him over and over again. Darcy doesn’t look at Peter Pettigrew, ignoring him completely, hating him with everything that she has.

“Here,” Sirius says finally. Darcy sits carefully onto the bed. It groans underneath her, as if begging her to stand back up. He nearly jumps onto the bed with a youthfulness she rarely sees in her godfather, and in his hands is another magical photograph. “Look.”

Darcy takes it from his hands and instantly smiles, crying in spite of herself. The picture is just of she and Sirius—she must be closer to four in it, laying on her back on his outstretched legs, laughing hysterically and silently as he kisses her exposed stomach and presumably blows raspberries on her skin.

“You were always a very affectionate child,” Sirius says, looking over her shoulder at the picture. “Harry, on the other hand, was attached to your mother’s hip.”

The photo makes her feel things she hasn’t felt since her last year at Hogwarts, when she’d been plagued by her ‘nightmares’ involving Sirius Black. She remembers how she would wake from those dreams feeling so happy, feeling so loved, despite what she thought about Sirius at the time. She had looked forward to those dreams, glad to know the feeling of love.

She gives him the picture back and Sirius looks at it for a long time. “Thank you for showing me this.”

He nods slowly. “Sometimes I look at you, and I still see the little girl you were.” Sirius looks sad then—weary and sad and broken. “There were some nights that I’d wonder if you’d even remember me if I ever got out of Azkaban. And you did.”

Darcy’s chest heaves, her heart pounding a violent tattoo. She looks at him for a long time, feeling sorry for him. “Sirius?” she whispers, as he fumbles with the picture in his hands.

“Hm?”

She pauses, so nervous she could throw up. “I love you.”

Sirius blinks in surprise, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. It’s endearing, and it makes her smile. “No one’s said those words to me since...before.” Darcy blushes when she sees Sirius’s eyes grow watery, and she turns away, staring intently at the photograph on the wall.

After a few moments of silence, Darcy thinks she does well hiding her disappointment of not hearing the words back. But when he says her name, a soft murmur, she faces him again, his cheeks wet with tears.

Sirius touches her face, cupping a cheek. She lowers her head to allow Sirius to kiss her forehead. “I love you,” he says into her hair. He wraps his arms around her before she can say anything else, and Darcy closes her eyes, feeling the warmth settle in her bones that only a father’s love could bring. Without warning, the tears come quickly, and Darcy sobs into his shoulder as he smooths her hair back and holds her.

They rejoin the kitchen a little while later while everyone is finishing up with dessert. Darcy keeps her eyes down, knowing they’re likely swollen and bloodshot from crying, and Sirius offers her an empty seat between he and Gemma, fixing a plate for her full of desserts before resuming his own seat.

“All right?” Gemma whispers between the loud conversations of their friends.

Darcy nods, eating slowly. After a few moments, conversation begins to lull and the only sounds are content sighs, yawns, Tonks’s back cracking as she stretches, and Darcy’s cutlery scraping against her plate. Everyone seems to be waiting for her to finish, not wanting to leave early and seem rude. It only makes Darcy eat faster, and she’s very grateful when Gemma asks Sirius to open a bottle a wine, which he eagerly indulges her. The wine is strong and almost too sweet, and Darcy drains her first goblet before Sirius finishes pouring the last of the bottle into Lupin’s cup.

Sirius seems to have quickly regained his usual boyish manner, looking at Harry curiously from his other side. “Harry, I’m surprised at you. You haven’t asked a single question about Voldemort.”

Harry looks mildly affronted. “I did,” he scoffs. “Ron and Hermione says we’re too young to be in the Order.”

“They’re quite right,” Mrs. Weasley interrupts. She rises, looking around at all of her children before shooting daggers at Sirius. “Time for bed, children. And you, Darcy.”

“What?” Darcy protests, perhaps a little too loudly. “Why do _I_ have to go to bed?”

“Molly, please don’t,” Mr. Weasley sighs, rubbing his temples, his elbows on the table. “Darcy’s of age and out of school…if Dumbledore is all right with it—”

“Fine,” Mrs. Weasley concedes reluctantly. “Darcy, you may stay, but the rest of you, up to—”

“He’ll only be asking questions,” Sirius snaps. “They’ve been stuck in that Muggle house for a month—let them ask some questions. They have the right to know.”

Chaos erupts at the table. The twins shout furiously at the idea of being asked to leave; Ron joins them, banging a fist on the table; Mrs. Weasley suddenly resorts to sending Darcy to bed again after getting only more angry. Sirius adds his voice to the mix, and Gemma watches from Darcy’s left side with a look that’s half-disgust and half-amusement. Gemma leans into Darcy, whispering in her ear as Mrs. Weasley points a finger at Sirius. “It’s not down to you to decide what’s best for Harry and Darcy!”

“Say something, or I will,” Gemma whispers.

Darcy exchanges a quick look with her friend. She swallows hard and says in her best attempt at confidence, “I know what’s best for me.”

Everyone quiets at her voice, and Darcy blushes, trying not to look away from Mrs. Weasley. “You’re nineteen, Darcy. Hardly more than a child.”

She clears her throat as everyone watches her. “I’m not a child,” she continues, trying to still her drumming heart. “And I know what’s best for Harry, more than anyone else at this table. _I_ say we have a right to know.”

“You aren’t his mother—”

“She’s the closest thing to a mother that I’ve ever known,” Harry suddenly says. His tone is not harsh, but defensive, and Darcy feels a surge of affection for her brother. “Darcy has always known what’s best for me.”

Harry’s too uncomfortable to look her in the eyes, and Darcy looks down at her plate, blushing furiously and smiling absently. To hear such praise does wonders for her mood, even during such a tense moment.

“He’s not a member of the Order,” Mrs. Weasley retorts hotly, speaking to Darcy and Sirius. “He’s _fifteen_ —”

“He’s not a child!” Sirius runs a hand through his hair, huffing impatiently.

“He’s not an adult, either.” Mrs. Weasley pauses for a moment, her jaw clenching. “He’s not _James_. Sometimes, the way you talk about him, it’s like you have your best friend back!”

Harry frowns. “What’s wrong with that?”

But Darcy’s stomach churns at these words. Whatever small joy Harry’s sentiment has brought her is gone. She knows what’s wrong with that, and it’s something she’s always hated. It’s what she used to fear when she’d met Lupin again—afraid that he saw her as Lily, or even as James, and not Darcy. It’s what she fears with Snape—Snape seeing her as Lily and not herself, loving her only because of her resemblance to her mother.

“You are _not_ your father, however much you may look like him!” Mrs. Weasley shouts. “You are still fifteen, still in school, and adults responsible for you should not forget it!”

“Molly, it may be better for Harry to hear everything directly from us,” Lupin suggests mildly, giving her an apologetic look. “Instead of a garbled version…”

Sensing defeat, Mrs. Weasley tried to scrape together the rest of her dignity. “Speaking as someone who has Harry’s best interests at heart—”

Sirius’s face is hard and cold. “He’s not your son.”

“He’s as good as.” Mrs. Weasley avoids looking directly at Darcy. “Who else has he got?”

Darcy’s stung momentarily. How could Mrs. Weasley just ignore all that she’s done for her brother? Darcy could kiss Lupin when next he speaks, his brow furrowed. “That’s quite unfair to Darcy, isn’t it?”

But neither Sirius nor Mrs. Weasley seem to listen to Lupin at all. “He’s got me,” Sirius answers.

“And I’m sure it’s been quite hard to look after him while you’ve been locked up in Azkaban, hasn’t it?”

The room is suddenly uncomfortably warm. Gemma sucks in a sharp breath beside her and Mr. Weasley freezes, seemingly shocked by his wife’s outburst. Darcy looks very slowly at Sirius as he begins to rise from his chair, his face contorted with rage.

“If both Darcy and Sirius are in agreement that Harry may stay,” Lupin says again, “then I think it only right that he stays. You are not the only one who cares for them, Molly.”

Mrs. Weasley gives Lupin a dangerous look, and Darcy wishes she could run out of the room before hearing whatever will come out of her mouth. “I don’t think you have any right to claim—”

“Molly, _don’t_.” Mr. Weasley is firm, ending it before it has begun. He gives Darcy a short, acknowledging nod from across the table and a small smile.

It seems Mrs. Weasley has finally run out of things to say. She begins to usher her children, save Bill, out of the kitchen, but they begin to protest and argue loudly again. And only when Harry promises to relay information Ron and Hermione, and when Gemma winks at Fred when he asks her the same, does Mrs. Weasley allow them to stay against her will. She does, however, force and screaming and storming Ginny out of the kitchen and up to bed, causing the terrible shrieking to start up again.

Lupin jumps to quiet the screaming, and when he returns, Sirius turns to Harry and Darcy in turn. “Well, what do you want to know?”

Darcy meets eyes with Lupin for a moment, but she knows what he’s trying to communicate to her. She’ll get her answers, she just has to be patient. Darcy allows Harry to ask whatever questions he wants, afraid that hers will solicit too much information.

“Where’s Voldemort?” Harry asks immediately. “What’s he doing? I haven’t seen anything about deaths or—”

“That's because there haven’t been any, as far as we know,” Sirius says. “He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself, see. His comeback didn’t exactly go as planned—many thanks to you, Harry.”

“The only people who were supposed to know Voldemort was back were his Death Eaters. You weren’t supposed to survive. You carried the information back to Dumbledore, the one person he really didn’t want to know,” Lupin smiles.

“Dumbledore was the only wizard You-Know-Who was ever scared of,” Bill adds. “And you told him the moment you got back.”

Harry looks around at them all, licking his lips. “So what has the Order been doing?”

“Currently, with Voldemort attempting to recruit new Death Eaters,” Sirius explains, “we’ve been trying to combat that by trying to convince as many people as we can that Voldemort’s returned.”

“It’s been tough,” Bill says, frowning. His one earrings still dangles from his ear, his bright red hair tied back in a ponytail. “The Ministry hasn’t been very...helpful.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “But why?”

“Cornelius Fudge refuses to believe he’s back.” Tonks looks very serious, an odd expression for her since she’s been quite chipper all night. “Truth is, he’s frightened of Dumbledore.”

Mr. Weasley nods, taking his glasses off to wipe them with his shirt. “Fudge is convinced Dumbledore is after his job. Before he was elected, Dumbledore had the popular support—everyone thought he was sure to be Minister. But he didn’t want the job then, and he doesn’t want it now.”

“In the early days of his Ministry, he was always asking Dumbledore for advice,” Lupin tells Harry. “Dumbledore is far cleverer than Fudge, but Fudge is blinded by power. He’s convinced himself that Dumbledore is only trying to stir up trouble.”

“I remember Fudge at school.” Darcy thinks back to when she’d known him then—she’d always thought him a little bit of a fool, but in a charming, Ludo Bagman sort of way. Definitely not in a malicious and idiotic way. “He used to come to Hogwarts to meet with Dumbledore. He’d always make sure to say hello on his way to and from.”

Lupin nods. “Fudge would rather live thinking Dumbledore is lying than admit to Voldemort being back. It would cause panic, it would be chaos—trouble.” He takes a drink from his glass, sighing. “The Ministry insists there is nothing to fear, making it difficult to convince people he’s back. The Ministry is using the _Daily Prophet_ to discredit Dumbledore, to call it all rumor-mongering, lulling innocent people into a false sense of security. You can understand, of course, the risks this presents to them. Unexpecting victims.”

“It’s difficult for us to recruit in the open, as well,” Gemma cuts in. “It’s not like I’m in a position to recruit people to the Order. None of us are really in a position to recruit.”

“Then what are you doing?” Darcy asks suddenly, earning her a hard look from Lupin. “What is the Order doing if you can’t do the one thing you’re supposed to do?”

“Have you not been reading the papers, Darcy?” Lupin raises an eyebrow. “I’m surprised at you. Dumbledore himself has been trying to put the news out, but it’s costing him everything. They’re slowly stripping him of titles and awards with each public statement he makes about Voldemort’s return.”

“If he isn’t careful, he could end up in Azkaban,” Mr. Weasley says. “The last thing we need is Dumbledore locked up.”

“Would they do that?” Darcy glances at Sirius, needing to hear it from his mouth. “Would they lock him up for telling the truth?”

Sirius gives her a bitter smile. “Since when has the Ministry ever cared about the truth? They locked me up for a crime I didn’t commit, and they still have a bounty on my head.” He stews for a few seconds in his anger before turning to Harry once more. “Anyway, Voldemort isn’t just focusing solely on recruiting Death Eaters. He’s got other plans, as well, waiting to be put into action.”

“What’s he after?” Harry’s eyes grow wide behind his glasses.

Sirius and Lupin glance at each other for a split second. Sirius leans back in his seat, considering Harry. “Stuff he can only get by stealth.” He pauses. “Like a weapon. Something he didn’t have last time.”

Harry looks confused. “A weapon?”

“That’s enough.” Mrs. Weasley had returned, standing in the shadows of the threshold. She’s red in the face, looking furious. “You’ve told them enough.”

To Darcy’s surprise, Harry looks pleadingly to Lupin. “You let Darcy into the meeting. Why can I join? If she’s able to be in the Order, why can’t I?”

Lupin shakes his head. “Your sister is nineteen, an adult, and out of school.” He rubs at his chin. “There are dangers involved you cannot imagine. Molly’s right—we’ve said enough.”

Mrs. Weasley orders them all to bed, even Darcy. Darcy feels it’s probably best to just go upstairs to make her happy, slightly disappointed when Gemma doesn’t follow. Upon reaching her bedroom, Darcy changes quickly into pajamas, climbing into bed and finally realizing just how exhausted she really is. The amount of information she’s received in just the last few hours makes her head hurt, and she’s still working on processing it all. She hopes Lupin will help her make sense of it.

She falls asleep with ease, the creaking and settling of the house making her stir from time to time. The second time she stirs, she finds Gemma asleep beside her. Half-asleep, Darcy tugs at the blanket that Gemma’s tangled in, seeing something move in the shadows at the foot of the bed. When she hears a low, ominous moan, she screams.

Gemma wakes immediately, tumbling out of bed with a _CRASH_! Darcy continues to scream as the shadow moves with slow footsteps, and Gemma reaches for her wand on the desktop hurriedly. She can hear the portrait of Sirius’s mother screaming as more crashing grows nearer from outside in the corridors, heavy footsteps shaking the entire house. Her heart beats so quickly she feels she might pass out. Darcy’s eyes adjust as she grabs her wand from under her pillow, lighting the tip only to find an old and decrepit house-elf standing where the shadow had been.

The door is kicked open—Lupin nearly falls through the door, pushed through by a panic-stricken Sirius, followed by Harry and Ron. Almost immediately, a jet of red light fires from the tip of Lupin’s wand, but it’s too late to stop it when he realizes what’s frightened her.

“ _No_!” Darcy shrieks, lifting her wand to create a shield in front of the house-elf.

Lupin swears in relief, hands on his knees, panting. Sirius casts light all around the room, firing up the flames in the gas lamps. Everyone seems to be breathing rather heavily, including the house-elf. “Don’t _do_ that,” Lupin gasps, standing up and clutching his chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Ron laughs from beside Harry. “He did the same thing to me a little while ago.”

Gemma pushes herself to her feet, rubbing her backside and groaning. “I guess I should have bolted the door,” she sighs, inspecting the fresh bruise on her leg where she’d hit the floor hard. “What a wake up call.”

“I’m so sorry, Darcy,” Sirius mumbles, glowering at the house-elf. “ _Kreacher_ …”

Darcy runs a hand through her hair as Sirius orders the house-elf, Kreacher, out of the room in a way that wouldn’t please Hermione. “Was no one going to warn me that a house-elf might come to watch me sleep?” she hisses at them all. “Never a moment’s peace, is there?”

She lays back down, shoving her wand under her pillow, closing her eyes and turning their back on them. She feels Gemma slip back under the blanket, sighing heavily, and the boys shuffle back out of the room, extinguishing the lights, closing the door, and hurrying to quiet the portrait.

“What a horrid, ugly house-elf, but it’s sweet that Lupin came to save you,” Gemma yawns before she begins to snore softly again. 


	7. Chapter 7

“Darcy?”

Darcy’s eyes flutter open. The sun isn’t up fully yet, but the sky is growing lighter outside the grimy window. The other side of the bed is empty, a few of Gemma’s things still on the desk. She rolls over in bed to find Harry standing in the doorway. Checking her watch on the nightstand, it’s two minutes to five o’clock in the morning. “Harry, what’s wrong? What are you doing up so early?”

He’s quiet for a moment, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. Harry’s already dressed, still lacking shoes. “I can’t sleep.” His socks are mismatched, one with a hole in them. “Will you make me breakfast?”

She pushes herself up on the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Darcy takes a moment to fully wake up, but it’s easier said than done. “Yeah,” she answers softly. “Yeah, of course.”

Darcy doesn’t bother changing out of her pajamas. Harry lets her pass through the doorway first, following her almost silently down the stairs. The house is ominously silent—every footstep of hers seems to reverberate tenfold in her head, each breath she takes seems loud enough to wake all of the guests, each beat of her heart threatening to wake the portrait of Mrs. Black. She urges Harry to sit at the empty kitchen table, rifling through the pantry to find food for breakfast. It takes her a moment to find everything she needs for even the simplest of breakfasts, but she eventually figures out how to work the stove, finds some dusty pans, and begins to crack eggs, throwing bacon into a sizzling hot pan, preparing bread for toast.

Harry sits in silence as she goes about her business, uncomplaining and exhausted. She wants to ask him about what everyone had told them last night, but she settles on something else, her back to him. “What day is your hearing again?”

“Thursday.”

“Do you have something nice to wear?” she asks again, stirring the eggs into the pan, pushing the crisping bacon to the side. “Socks without holes? And give me those jeans you were wearing last night. They’re too long for you—I can hem them for you.”

“Okay.” Darcy sets a glass in front of Harry, filling it with orange juice. “I’ll find something.”

“Well, let me take a look before Thursday.” It takes Darcy more than a minute to find a plate and silverware, but she does, loading it with food and sliding it in front of Harry. She sits down across from him, yawning. “I’ll go with you,” she says, “for your hearing.”

Harry eats as if starved. Darcy watches him, running a hand through her tangled red hair. “Are you going to tell me about the meeting?” He isn’t unkind about it, but Darcy knows he’ll be angry if she doesn’t tell him anything.

“There’s nothing to tell,” she lies, only half-lying in truth. “They were almost done when I came in. You heard it all from Sirius and them last night.”

“And the weapon?” Harry lifts his eyebrows, his fork held halfway to his mouth. “Do you know what it is?”

“No,” she answers, relieved that she can tell him the honest truth. “I don’t know anything about it. But it is being guarded, and Voldemort won’t get it.” Darcy holds her head up with her hands, wanting nothing more than to crawl back in bed. “What you said last night about me, Harry...I want to thank you. It meant a lot to me to hear you say that.”

“Why?” Harry frowns. “It’s true. Not like Petunia ever did half the things you did for me.”

Darcy hesitates, overwhelmed with sudden guilt. “Harry, I know that I have not been the sister I should have been during the last month—maybe even the last year. I should have been there for you that night. I should have—I should have never went with Gavin.”

“I don’t…” Harry sighs, lowering his fork back to his plate, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He catches sight of Darcy’s stern look and quickly picks up a napkin to wipe his mouth instead. “I don’t expect you to always be there—I—I wasn’t mad that you weren’t there. I was mad because you were with Gavin.”

“But why, Harry?” Darcy feels she knows what Harry is going to say, but can’t he just take a moment to understand? Doesn’t he realize how Gavin had made her feel? How special it was for her to have found a good friend in him? “Gavin was good to me, and he was fond of you, as well.”

“I know, but…” He shifts awkwardly in his seat, his cheeks turning slightly pink. “What happened with you and Lupin?”

“I told you,” she replies brusquely. “We wanted different things.”

Harry looks at his sister for a long time, looking entirely unconvinced. But there’s something else in his face that Darcy can’t quite place. Something more than sadness or exhaustion or hurt—something that doesn’t fit Harry’s sweet face. “Do you promise that it wasn’t because of me?”

Darcy smiles weakly, knowing suddenly the look that crosses his face. _Guilt_. “I promise it wasn’t you. It was because of me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” The stubborn look that Darcy knows so well crosses Harry’s face once more. “If you just talked to him, I’m sure he’d come round.”

She purses her lips, reminding herself of Aunt Petunia and hating herself for a second. “Listen to me, Harry,” she whispers, not wanting to have this discussion, but knowing that once it’s done, she won’t have to worry about it ever again. “I couldn’t give him what he wanted. I’m not ready for the things he wanted—”

“What does he want?”

Darcy clears her throat, unsure of how much she’d like her brother to know. The thought of Lupin makes her incredibly sad, but no tears come. She attributes it to the early hour and the shock still settling from the previous night. “I was...not ready to marry.”

Harry blinks in surprise, a faint smile ghosting across his face as if she’s joking. “He wanted to marry you?”

She nods slowly. “And I wanted to marry him very much.” Darcy pauses, cursing herself silently when she feels the lump in her throat form. She covers her face with her hands, crying softly. Harry gives her a moment, until Darcy wipes her eyes and sniffles, looking at him again. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t give him that.”

“Why not?”

Darcy chooses her words carefully. “I won’t marry him just because one of us may die tomorrow.”

Harry swallows loudly, looking down at his plate. He works his jaw for a few moments, thinking very hard. “When you were with Lupin, I—” Giving Darcy a sheepish look, he plunges on recklessly. “I felt like we were a family.”

Surely Harry hears Darcy’s heart shatter in her chest. “We are a family, Harry. All of us.” And while the statement breaks her heart further, she knows that it’s true—she had known when Lupin left that he would not walk out of her life, or Harry’s, forever. “And anyway, when have we ever really needed anyone besides each other?”

Harry only shrugs.

“Harry, I promise you, I’ll be the sister I couldn’t be last year,” she smiles. “I won’t let anything like those dementors happen to you ever again.”

It’s quiet between them until the kitchen door opens again, and Darcy curses whatever higher power has sent her Lupin through the door. He stops at the sight of them, his hair disheveled, his eyes bleary with sleep. Darcy runs a frustrated hand through her hair at the thought of Lupin actually staying here, at Sirius’s house, with them. “You two are up...suspiciously early,” he notes, leaving the door open.

Darcy hums in response, still looking at Harry. “Can I be excused?” Harry asks suddenly.

His question takes her off guard, and she chuckles. “You don’t have to ask. Go put your plate away. I’ll wash it. Put your jeans on my bed.” Harry does as she asks with his plate, kissing her head on the way back towards the door. Before he leaves, she calls after him, “And find some nice clothes for your hearing so I can look them over!”

“Okay, mum,” Harry calls back, disappearing up the steps.

Lupin fumbles with some mugs behind Darcy. “Coffee, Darcy?”

Darcy hesitates, turning to look at him. Privately, she wants very much to run away because just looking at him makes her hurt. But there are questions she wants answered, and with the rest of the house still asleep, Darcy can’t think of a more opportune time. “Coffee sounds fine,” she says.

“With or without a shot of firewhisky?”

“You know me far too well,” Darcy laughs quietly, turning to face him. “Coffee with a shot of firewhisky sounds far too tempting to pass up.”

“Sirius takes his the same way, it seems,” Lupin jokes, pointing out the half-empty bottle of firewhisky beside the coffee grounds. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Harry couldn’t sleep, asked me to make him breakfast. There’s some bacon leftover if you’d like some.”

“Have you eaten?” Lupin glances around for a sign of a second plate.

“No, I’m not hungry.” But her body betrays her, her stomach growling loud enough to catch Lupin’s attention.

He refuses the bacon, raising his eyebrows at her as he makes their coffee. “Eat.”

“Not right now.”

Lupin’s small smile fades. The room suddenly smells wonderfully like coffee, making Darcy’s mouth water. He seats himself where Harry had just been sitting, placing their coffee in front of them. Looking quickly over his shoulder, Lupin takes his wand out of his pocket, giving it a sharp wave to close the kitchen door. He takes a sip of his steaming coffee, sighing. “I expect you have many questions.”

“You’ll answer any question I have? You’ll tell me the truth?”

“I will tell you anything I know in regards to your questions,” Lupin agrees, though he seems to do so against his better judgement. “I owe you that much, don’t I? But if I’m going to be giving you information no one wants me to give you in the first place, I want to ask questions of my own.”

Darcy blinks in surprise. This is the last thing she’d expected to come out of his mouth. “I don’t like this game,” she murmurs, drinking her coffee just for something to do. She feels the slight burn of the firewhisky down her throat, warming her chest and stomach. “Why are you telling me this? If other people don’t want me to know things, why are you telling me anyway?”

“You’re not a child anymore,” Lupin tells her, and he looks at her curiously for a moment, his eyes flicking up and down her. He clasps his mug with both hands. “The reasons I gave Molly—you’re of age, out of school, the same age we were when we joined the Order the first time. By keeping secrets from you, by not being completely honest and open—” He hesitates, clenching his jaw. “ _I_ feel, personally, that it is in your best interests to be kept updated and informed. I feel it’s best that you are aware of what is happening.”

“And you think you know what’s best for me better than Sirius does? My godfather? Or Mr. Weasley?” Darcy leans forward. “You think you know what’s best for me better than I do?”

“Certainly, I do,” Lupin answers, slightly affronted, as if this is the complete opposite of what he’d expected. “I know you far better than either Sirius or Mr. Weasley do. Do you disagree with me? You think you shouldn’t know, then? Would you rather I leave you in the dark?”

Darcy softens. There’s no denying the truth of his words. Sirius, between being locked away in Azkaban for so many years and not being readily available for most of the past year, does not know her very well at all. And though she’s known Mr. Weasley for longer than she’s known Lupin, Lupin had been around far more often. He’s always understood the way her mind works sometimes, the way she feels. “They treat me like a child,” she whispers. “Mrs. Weasley, Dumbledore, Snape. Gemma acts like I’m a girl who needs protecting. Even Sirius sometimes—sometimes he speaks to me, it’s like he’s speaking to me as a little girl.”

“Would you rather he speak to you as he would Lily?” Lupin asks, and Darcy damns him silently again for knowing her so well. “Don’t pretend as if Molly’s words didn’t affect you. At least Sirius knows very well who you are.”

“He should remember who Harry is, as well. Mrs. Weasley was right—he’s not our father.” Darcy pauses, taking another drink. “They treat me as if I’m fragile. As if knowing the truth would break me.”

“We’re worried for you,” Lupin answers, so, so gently that it angers her. Darcy frowns. He straightens up in his chair. “You show up here with a bruised cheek and a black eye and offer us no explanation, you wander off from Privet Drive after being explicitly told not to. You dedicate so much of your time to caring for Harry, and who cares for you?”

_You did_ , she wants to say. _You took care of me_. “I don’t need them to be my parents’ stand in. I’ve taken care of myself for fourteen years.”

Lupin doesn’t have an answer for her. He looks down at his hands, into his cup of coffee.

She thinks for a moment. “Why didn’t you come for me sooner?” Darcy asks, “Harry and I were going mad while the rest of you were shacked up here, with _our_ godfather. I wrote to you thinking you would help me, and instead you told me to stay there. Didn’t you realize I wouldn’t have written if it wasn’t serious?”

Lupin runs his hands through his hair, sighing again. “It wasn’t up to me when to collect you,” he replies sadly. “I had brought my concerns to Dumbledore about your first letter because I was afraid of something happening. I brought him your second letter, as well, but—headquarters took awhile to secure and make fit for habitation, so for a few weeks we didn’t have anywhere to bring either of you.”

“Anywhere would have been better than there,” Darcy says quietly. The unsaid words linger the air, and Lupin clenches his jaw again.

Looking uncomfortable, Lupin looks at her apologetically. “I couldn’t bring you back to my home, Darcy,” he says. “The Death Eaters are sure to know that we’ve been involved. I was under a heavy amount of protection—Dumbledore was sure the Death Eaters would look for you with me. And with Sirius there, as well, and the Ministry so unhappy with Dumbledore and...well, _you_ after the way you spoke to Fudge, I—it was a risk I was not willing to take.”

Darcy feels quite bad for being angry with him then.

“It’s my turn.” He gives her a very hard look, and Darcy knows what’s coming before he even says it. “Why did your uncle hit you?”

She grinds her teeth. “He caught me sneaking back in after I’d been with Gavin. It the night of the dementor attack.”

“I don’t believe it.”

He says it so casually and confidently that it makes Darcy scoff. “Excuse me?”

“Why did your uncle hit you? Tell me the truth. It’s just us now.”

“No.”

“I thought we had a deal,” Lupin growls, leaning in towards her.

“Then I don’t want to do this anymore. I’ll ask Mr. Weasley my questions. Or Sirius.” Darcy crosses her arms over her chest. “Don’t ask me again.”

“Damn it, Darcy, why can’t you just stop being so prideful for two minutes and tell me the truth?”

“I’m not being prideful,” she snaps. “I don’t want to.”

“What are you so afraid of? You think I’ll laugh in your face? You think I’ll go murder them right now if I know the truth? What’s the worst that could happen if you just say it?”

“Fine,” Darcy hisses, splaying her hands on the table. “You want to know why Vernon hit me? Because someone went into my bedroom and found photographs of us, and letters that you’d written me, and Vernon saw them. Are you happier now that you know that? Does that put your mind at ease?”

At once, Lupin’s face goes white and he sucks in a sharp intake of breath. Darcy’s chest is heaving, her heart racing at her admission. They look at each other for a long time. He struggles with speech, stammering in disbelief, his voice very faint. “I—” he starts, putting a hand to his chest. “I—I did that?”

“No,” Darcy answers firmly, frowning when she catches him looking at her left shoulder. “Vernon did, not you.” Lupin shakes his head, but Darcy quickly adds, “Please, Remus, please—I don’t—I don’t blame you. Can I ask my question now?”

It’s clear they aren’t finished talking about it, but Lupin nods all the same, having a hard time looking her in the eyes.

“What of the dementors? Hasn’t the Ministry looked into why there were dementors at Privet Drive? Surely that’s the priority instead of holding this—hearing?”

Still shaken, Lupin continues reluctantly. “No, you should have guessed the Ministry has done nothing. They still believe the dementors under Ministry control.”

“So who do they think sent the dementors? They think they just wandered there of their own accord?” Darcy drains the rest of her coffee, slamming the mug back onto the table. “They think that it’s a coincidence my brother was attacked by dementors?”

“According to Kingsley—they think Harry is lying about there being any dementors at all.” Lupin finishes his coffee, standing so abruptly that Darcy jumps. He grabs both of their cups, moving to refill them. With his back to her, he asks, “Did you sleep with that boy?”

“That’s boy’s name is Gavin,” Darcy retorts, turning in her seat to face him again. She watches him pour firewhisky into both of their cups this time. “Why are you asking such stupid questions?”

Lupin holds the mugs tight, but doesn’t look at her. “Did you sleep with Gavin?”

Darcy rolls her eyes at his back. “No, I didn’t. Nothing happened that night. I couldn’t...go through with it, and he took me home.” And then, feeling angry and blushing furiously, she adds, “And I’d appreciate it if, the next time I kiss a boy, you didn’t watch!”

His shoulders relax and Darcy feels a churning in her stomach at the thought that he still feels jealous. It gives her a perverted sense of pleasure, but she hides her smile when Lupin turns back around, bringing their coffee to the table again. “It’s your turn for a question.”

“What’s the weapon Sirius was talking about?”

Lupin falters. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

He gives his head a small shake. “No. Dumbledore has not...confided in us what it is we’re guarding. Truthfully, we’re more keeping watch for something out of the ordinary. Dumbledore clearly expects Death Eaters or Voldemort to come looking. And please don’t ask me where it’s located because that is the one thing I cannot tell you.”

There’s a heavy silence that blankets them; Darcy doesn’t look away from him, unable to. “I want another question, then.” Darcy waits for him to protest, but he merely shrugs and gestures for her to continue. “And you have to promise to tell me the truth.”

“I’ve been telling you the truth. What’s your question?”

Darcy inhales deeply, drinking a large swig of coffee, hoping the small amount of firewhisky in it will give her some small courage. “Do you still love me?”

Lupin doesn’t seem at all surprised by her question, but he still doesn’t have an answer prepared. He rubs at the patchy beard on his face, looking down at the table again. “Look, Darcy, since we’re being honest, I must tell you this.” He clenches his jaw, the muscles in his face twitching, and drags a hand down his face. “I’m in rather an awkward position right now. On one hand, I feel...obligated to care for you, to protect you, to keep you safe. You are, after all, the daughter of my good friends, and I could never live with myself if I abandoned you again.”

“But on the other hand, you want nothing to do with me.”

“No, that’s not true,” Lupin counters, a bit sharply. He looks slightly hurt by her words, but it’s nothing to how she feels. She doesn’t want an explanation—all she wants to know is yes or no. “You know I would do anything for you?”

“Then love me,” she rasps, hating herself for crying. The tears come on suddenly, just like they had with Harry, and Lupin gives her the saddest, most pathetic look she’s ever seen. “I want to be yours again.”

“But you weren’t mine, Darcy,” Lupin says. “You weren’t mine, really. You’re Harry’s, and Severus’s while you are at Hogwarts. You are still returning to Hogwarts this year, aren’t you?”

“I don’t belong to them,” Darcy argues, wiping her eyes and feeling humiliated. “I’ll never be Snape’s, and Harry—he’s my brother, and he needs me—”

“Tell me you’ll stay—tell me you’ll stay here with me, and we can try again.” His voice is soft and hopeful, but Darcy has a feeling he already knows what his answer is going to be. He takes her silent crying for her response. Lupin frowns. “I understand and appreciate the load you’re carrying, but you insist on doing it yourself. Once you realize that Harry is not solely your responsibility—once you are ready to focus your efforts on a real relationship instead of pushing it aside for your brother, then maybe...maybe then things can be different. I’m not Oliver Wood—I’m not Gavin. I want something more than that, and you’re not ready for it.”

She takes a minute to fully digest these words. They make her heart ache painfully.

“Not to mention, look what I’ve made your uncle do to you. I’m not going to give him another reason to hurt you.” His voice is slightly higher now, anxious and apologetic. “And look what they’ve done to you in the past year—even now, they continue to mock the pretty sister of Harry Potter for being involved with a werewolf.”

Darcy wipes her wet cheeks again. “You didn’t answer my question.” She looks at Lupin again, blushing painfully. “Do you still love me?”

“Darcy—” Lupin leans back in his chair. “Darcy...please don’t.”

She doesn’t press him, pushing her coffee away. “Excuse me. I’m still feeling quite tired,” she mutters. “I think I’ll go back to bed for a little while.”

As Darcy opens the door and sets a foot into the hallway, Lupin whispers, “Don’t be foolish. Of course I still love you.” She glances over her shoulder, but he hasn’t even had the decency to look at her.

She climbs the stairs slowly, wondering how such sweet words could make her feel so sad. _It’s my fault for being so stupid_ , she thinks. _It’s my fault for feeling so protective over Harry—and why shouldn’t I_? All of the reasons he’d given for them not being able to be together seem stupid and moronic and forced. Vernon can’t reach her at Hogwarts, and she doesn’t care about what the stupid papers say about her. And she should still come home during weekends, during holidays—why isn’t that enough for him? Why can’t she be enough?

When she falls back into her bed, she rather wishes she hadn’t asked that question at all. 


	8. Chapter 8

A shrill scream pierces the air, waking the portrait of Mrs. Black and alerting the house to potential danger. The heavy footsteps of Sirius and Lupin come racing up the stairs, stumbling and tripping over each other in their haste to discover the danger.

The danger is nothing, however. Lupin gives an exasperated sigh when he finds Darcy standing outside her bedroom door, white as a ghost, wide-eyed, pointing at the ground, where four dead mice are lying before her very feet. Sirius, at least, has the grace to look annoyed at the display of rodents, but Gemma cackles from inside the bedroom, puffing on a cigarette as she paces, cleaning the clutter in the bedroom. There’s some shuffling from a few floors below as someone covers the portrait, and all screaming subsides.

“I _stepped_ on a dead mouse!” Darcy hisses at Sirius, as if it’s his fault they’re sitting outside her bedroom in the first place. “Tell Kreacher I want him to _stay away_ from my room!”

“Kreacher is here, and Kreacher does not leave the mice for this girl,” comes the house-elf’s voice, and he appears between Sirius and Lupin’s legs, wringing his hands. He scowls at Darcy—if that’s indeed what it is—and peers behind her into the bedroom. “Kreacher only wanted to leave gifts for the pureblood girl who reminds Kreacher so of his mistress…”

“This is _my_ room, Kreacher,” Darcy growls. “Don’t come near it again.”

Kreacher’s face contorts horribly with disgust, and his points a thin, trembling finger at her. “What would Kreacher’s poor mistress say if she knew the scum inside her house...blood traitors and half-breeds—”

“Stop that right now!” Darcy shouts. “He’s not a half-breed—”

“—little girls who breed with werewolves—”

Darcy forgets herself, lunging for the house-elf and wanting nothing more than to wrap her hands around his neck. “You little—”

“ _Darcy_! What are you doing?” Lupin grabs hold of her arms, pinning them to her sides as Sirius aims a kick at Kreacher. Kreacher narrowly avoids it, but continues to mutter under his breath maliciously. Darcy struggles in Lupin’s hold, letting out a string of obscenities that Kreacher doesn’t pay any attention to. “Easy— _easy_ —”

“I don’t want your gifts, Kreacher,” Gemma snaps, with as much superiority that she can muster, suddenly at the threshold. She holds herself tall, stepping up to Darcy’s side and looking with disgust at the dead mice at her feet. Darcy thinks she looks quite frightening, her face dark and cold. Lupin finally releases Darcy and she breathes heavily, flexing her fingers. “They’re vile. Clean them up.”

And to everyone’s surprise, Kreacher bows low to the ground, his nose nearly touching one of the dead mice on the floor. “Yes, mistress…Kreacher lives to serve the noble and most ancient house of Black…”

Gemma makes a noise of disgust, retreating back into the bedroom. Darcy watches as Kreacher collects the mice, holding them by the tail and cradling them like children as he makes his way back down the stairs. Furious and slightly embarrassed, Darcy leaves Sirius and Lupin standing outside, slamming the bedroom door shut and locking herself in with Gemma.

“Why does Kreacher do all you ask?” Darcy grumbles, watching Gemma pick up her still smoking cigarette from the ashtray. “You’re a blood traitor.”

“Yikes,” Gemma laughs, raising her eyebrows and wandering over to the bed, holding up a navy blue tie in one hand and a green one in the other. “Here—which one?”

“Blue,” Darcy answers quickly. “He’s wearing gray to his hearing.”

“I like the green—it would bring out his eyes,” Gemma smiles, but Darcy gives her an incredulous look and shakes her head. Gemma lays the blue tie on the bed and tosses the green back at her own bag, lying open on the floor. “If Kreacher thinks I look like one of his mistresses, then fine—at least I have some control over him. And don’t let Hermione see you trying to kill him, either. What annoying things would she have to say about that? One of S.P.E.W.’s first—and likely only—real member?”

“Shut up,” Darcy sighs, laying back on the bed and holding her hands behind her head.

“Come to realize not all house-elves are like Dobby, hm?” When Gemma doesn’t receive a response, she continues. “All I’m saying is, instead of focusing attention on house-elves, she could be focusing that attention on something different.”

“Like what?” Darcy asks, closing her eyes. “Humor me.”

Gemma answers much quicker than Darcy expects her to. “Like werewolves.”

Darcy’s eyes snap open, and she sits up slowly. “Werewolves?” she repeats, and Gemma shrugs, putting her cigarette out and sitting at the desk, facing Darcy.

“At least werewolves are human,” Gemma argues. “Why should money and resources and time be put towards house-elves who aren’t even grateful? Why should they receive our attention when there are _people_ waiting to be helped? Who _want_ help?”

Darcy can’t quite think of an argument to that logic. “I read your dissertation in the _Prophet_. It was wonderful.”

Gemma smiles pleasantly, triumphantly, excitedly. She seems as if she’s been wanting to say whatever she’s going to say for a while, and she looks almost ready to burst. “We’ve secured funding for the potion. It’ll be available to the public starting the first of January for an affordable price and it will be easily accessible to those wishing to remain anonymous.”

A smile breaks across Darcy’s face and Gemma smiles wider. “You’ve secured funding? Truly?” When Gemma nods, Darcy jumps from the bed and Gemma jumps up to meet her. They both laugh for a moment in disbelief, holding hands and squeezing tight. “Gemma, that’s amazing!”

“It was hard work,” Gemma explains, beginning pace. Her excitement and pride is contagious, unable to wipe the smile off Darcy’s face. “I hosted galas to raise money, I advocated and lobbied at the Ministry—which was the most difficult part since they’re not very pro-werewolf at the moment—and I even got a few anonymous donations that I’m pretty sure were from Dumbledore, but _I did it_. We needed money for ingredients, for labor, for marketing and ads in every newspaper in Britain, but we’ve got it.”

Gemma stops pacing, still smiling at Darcy. Within seconds, Darcy wraps her arms around Gemma. They hug tight, and when Darcy pulls away, she finds Gemma’s eyes are wet with tears. “Gemma—” she laughs softly. “Why are you crying?”

“All of my life, I’ve grown up thinking that there was no other path for me,” she breathes, running a hand through her dark hair. “I was fated to be some pureblood wife to some Death Eater husband, to raise my children to uphold our prejudiced way, but—but this…” She scoffs, wiping her eyes. “ _I_ did this, and now people know that I’m good.”

“You are good,” Darcy agrees. “You are a good person. We all already knew that.”

Gemma cries harder, but she smiles through the tears, clutching Darcy’s shoulders tight. “I’m _good_.”

* * *

The days leading up to Harry’s trial are spent cleaning and decontaminating number twelve Grimmauld Place. Mrs. Weasley doesn’t make Darcy clean quite as much as the younger kids, so she has plenty of time to steal away with Gemma and sometimes Emily and Tonks. These quickly become her favorite moments, as Tonks is much more at ease and open with Emily around, and Emily is always full of exciting gossip and information. For instance, Darcy learns that Carla has gone to Borneo to stay with her sister, and the two of them have begun attempting to recruit foreign witches and wizards sympathetic to their cause. Emily even shows up one day with a letter from Carla detailing her excursions and observations in the small, wizarding community, along with several photographs of the landscape and friendly faces.

Once, when Mrs. Weasley walks in on the four of them smoking and drinking from a flask in the drawing room, she immediately sets them to re-decontaminating the room by hand and without magic, watching them closely to make sure they follow orders. Tonks tries to protest once, but Mrs. Weasley—stern and maternal to all, including Nymphadora Tonks—puts an end to it, and Tonks ends up on her hands and knees beside Emily, scrubbing away.

Snape comes and goes often, coming once each morning and once each evening, always at the same time and always bringing the day’s newspaper with him to give to Darcy. Feeling rather generous lately and not being able to thank Snape for the morning edition of the _Daily Prophet_ due to her cleaning schedule, she makes sure to leave a hot cup of coffee on the table for him. When she returns to the kitchen afterwards, it’s always empty. When Snape arrives in the evening with the _Evening Prophet_ , she thanks him with still warm leftovers from dinner. Sirius scrunches his nose and scowls when Darcy explains this to him, but nothing else is said.

Gemma stays with Darcy at Grimmauld Place in between her long shifts, often rising early in the morning before the sun rises, and sometimes working overnight. Tonks comes for dinner most nights, and because Emily works two fast paced jobs, visits a little less, but there’s more than enough company. Gemma, one day, brings up Darcy’s nightmares casually at lunch when the two of them are alone.

“You haven’t had nightmares, have you?”

Darcy is suddenly shocked when she realizes Gemma is right. She’s been so distracted, that she hasn’t even thought of them. With wide eyes, Darcy nods. “I haven’t had nightmares.”

Darcy’s glad to find that she even enjoys spending time with Lupin—with Gemma around, it eases the tension greatly, and the three of them laugh often and easily with each other. One night, Lupin teaches Gemma the concept of speed chess while Darcy hems Harry’s pants, and Gemma beats him during the first round to Darcy’s victorious cheers, earning herself bragging rights for an entire fortnight, the last of the bottle of brandy they’ve been drinking, and a few Galleons.

“Keep the money,” Gemma tells him politely, smirking and holding up her glass as Darcy’s empties the brandy into it. “And instead I’ll take that bottle of firewhisky you have in your room. Don’t think I didn’t see you smuggle that into the house yesterday.”

“Damn you.” He does get her the firewhisky, however, and Gemma shares it with them the following night.

Darcy and Sirius spend much of their time alone together, sitting in the drawing room talking of their years at Hogwarts, about everything and nothing. Sirius is able to make her laugh with stories about James, stories about Lily, stories about himself and Lupin. Every so often, when Darcy tells him a funny story, Sirius tells her how her father would be proud, and her chest always swells with pride. Usually, after such talks, he bids her goodnight with a kiss upon her brow, and Darcy always calls, “Goodnight, Sirius. Love you.”

He never fails to respond, always with a, “Love you too, kid.” And to hear the words so often and so meaningfully and genuine from someone she cares very much about, is too much to put into words sometimes. Harry had always been, and likely will always be, shy about Darcy’s affections and words of love, but Sirius is always open about his love for his goddaughter. It’s still a strange and unfamiliar feeling, but it makes her feel _good_. It makes her feel _happy_.

Another time, Sirius shows Darcy a tapestry in one of the rooms freshly cleaned. It spans the entire wall—a family tree, each person connected with old, still glittering gold embroidery. It’s immense and faded and moth-eaten, and Darcy runs her fingers over the names and dates of birth and, in some cases, dates of death. There are familiar names on it—Darcy sees Tonks on there, and the Malfoys’, names she’s never heard before and ones mentioned in passing years ago. Sirius watches on, his eyes roving the tapestry almost bitterly. “Here’s Gemma,” Darcy smiles, looking at Sirius. She’s very, very distantly related, but still there. “Where are you on here?”

“I’m not,” he answers, pointed out a place on the tapestry where there’s a small burn mark. “Gemma’s like to go the same way if she carries on the way she’s been.”

“You were disowned?” Darcy lowers her hand from Gemma’s name. She understands without an answer. She knows Sirius is a good person born into a bad family, just like Gemma. “I’m sorry.”

Sirius points out another burn mark on the tapestry. “Tonks’s mother. Married a Muggleborn.” He slides his finger slightly to the left, pointing to the name Bellatrix Black. “That’s likely who Kreacher thinks of when he sees Gemma. She’s in Azkaban now, but she did look an awful like Gemma when she was younger.”

Darcy gives Sirius a weak, reassuring smile, squeezing his hand for a moment in an attempt to comfort him, to ease his suddenly heightened anxiety.

“I hate it here, Darcy,” he sighs. “I never thought I’d have to come back, and…” Sirius runs a hand through his wavy hair. “Dumbledore won’t let me leave, not even as a dog, not even for a little bit.”

She frowns, suddenly feeling very sad for him. Darcy is very familiar with the feeling he’s feeling—his attitude towards the house, feeling like a prisoner. She touches his arm and Sirius looks at her again, just for a second. “Will you be all right without me? When I go back to Hogwarts?”

Sirius gives a bark of mirthless laughter. “I’ll be fine.”

“Who will take care of you?”

“Remus will be here. I won’t be alone.” Sirius shakes his shaggy head. “Besides, you don’t need to take care of me.”

“Of course I do,” Darcy whispers, inching closer to rest her head against his shoulder, holding onto his arm. “He better take very good care of you while I’m gone.”

Darcy doesn’t get much alone time with Harry before his hearing. With so many people to interact with in the house and so much cleaning to be done, Hermione and Ron typically accompany Harry when he goes off to find Darcy. Instead of talking to each other, Darcy often plays a few rounds of Exploding Snap with Harry and Ron, and Hermione likes to listen to Darcy read a chapter or two of a book found on some dusty shelf.

Wednesday evening, as Darcy reads to them from the drawing room, the fire at her back, Lupin passes by the open doorway. Ron has been asleep for nearly twenty minutes on the sofa, Harry dozing next to him, trying to stay awake. Hermione sits on the armchair, tired, but still listening attentively.

After a few seconds, Darcy sees Lupin taking a few, slow steps backwards. He leans against the doorway, crossing his arms and smiling weakly, listening. Darcy gives him a shy smile and finishes the chapter; Lupin inclines his head politely at her as if in thanks, leaving them alone again.

After Darcy wakes Ron, she sends the three of them off to bed, and she soon follows. Gemma’s working another night shift, leaving Darcy the entire bed for the night. She’s quite glad, too—Gemma sprawls when she sleeps, leaving little room for Darcy, and she often ends up taking half the blankets. When they’d bickered about it over dinner one night, Tonks had noted that they fought like a married couple, and everyone had laughed, even Darcy.

As she just just under the blankets, needing to get some sleep for Harry’s hearing in the morning, someone knocks on the door. Darcy sighs and lays still for a moment, before forcing herself back out of bed to open the door. Lupin’s standing on the other side, a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says breathlessly. “I, er—” Lupin adjusts the bag on his shoulder. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I...I brought your things back for you.”

“Oh,” she says. “Thank you—”

“There’s some shoes, and I got your clothes and that perfume,” he continues, stepping into her bedroom without invitation and turning to face her. Darcy furrows her brow, crossing her arms over her chest. “And your books, photographs…” Lupin lowers the bag slowly to the ground. “I used a spell.”

“Okay,” Darcy chuckles nervously. “Thank you.”

Lupin rubs the back of his neck, looking around the room. His hair is still damp from a shower, his face cleanly shaven, as smooth as it’s ever going to get. “Is Gemma working?” he asks, and Darcy nods. Finally, Lupin’s eyes fall upon the desk, and he gestures to the photo album, surrounded by leftover pictures. A grin splits his face. “What’s this? You’ve been scrapbooking?”

“Oh, I—I’ve been sorting through them.” Darcy blushes, rocking back and forth on her feet. “I started it at Privet Drive, but I’ve gotten more photographs from Gemma and Emily had a lot more than I thought.” She moves over to it, lifting it and smiling weakly. Part of her wishes Gemma were here, just to make things less awkward. “I was going to show Sirius tomorrow after the hearing, but…I mean, would you like to—”

“Yes, of course,” Lupin answers before she’s able to finish. “I’d—yes, I’d like to see.”

Darcy blinks in surprise at his eagerness. “All right, er—you can sit on the bed if you’d like.”

He does, thanking her, and she sits beside him, opening the album. Emily had been able to procure pictures of them as children together, at her home and some that had been taken by Carla at school. Darcy tells him stories behind some of them, they laugh softly at others, and Darcy feels very emotional finally being able to show him—even with pictures—herself throughout the years for the first time. She hadn’t intended to really show Lupin the album anytime soon, and forgets about the photos of she and Oliver Wood.

Lupin clenches his jaw when she flips the page to reveal a picture of she and Oliver just weeks before the end of sixth year. She’d been drunk—clear by the flush in her cheeks and the aloof smile on her face, eyes closed. Darcy blushes at the sight of herself sitting in Oliver’s lap in the common room, his arm wrapped tight around her waist.

But further into the photo album, he starts to smile again. The last half is full of pictures she’d taken herself—photographs of she and Harry, candid ones Gemma had taken while playing around with the camera, even occasional pictures of she and Lupin, the most innocent of ones. Lupin points out the photograph of Darcy and Hermione the night of the Yule Ball.

“You look...really, er—” He hesitates, retracting his hand suddenly. “That’s a nice picture.”

When they finish looking through it, Darcy stands to put it away, and Lupin stands with her. He reaches for the bag full of her things, reaching inside to pull out a large envelope. “What are those?”

“The pictures you left at my house. I wanted to ask you...” He trails off awkwardly, opening the envelope and retrieving a single picture. “Do you think I could keep this one? For...you know…” Lupin gives a small shrug and Darcy’s heart stops momentarily.

She takes the photograph gingerly in her hands, smiling down at it. It’s the picture he’d taken over last summer, of Darcy still asleep, the sunlight shining down on her face and making her hair appear much redder than it is. She gives it back to Lupin, blushing madly. “Sure, yeah, I guess so.”

Lupin smiles, taking the picture back from her. He clears his throat. Darcy can’t bring herself to ask him to leave, despite how tired she is. She wants to bring him to bed, to curl up on his chest, to wake up to sweet kisses on her back. “You seem really happy lately,” he notes casually.

Darcy lets out an incredulous laugh. “I am,” she confesses. She opens her arms, looking around the room and smiling wider. “This is it, isn’t it? This is what I’ve been missing?”

“Grimmauld Place?”

“A family,” she corrects kindly. “I mean, this is how a family is supposed to be, right? This is what I’ve wanted, and I have it now. I have a _family_.”

He nods, but his smile falters briefly. “Congratulations,” Lupin says. “You deserve it more than...anyone I know.”

She wants to kiss him then, to kiss him hard, to feel him pull her body to his. A feeling of want floods her—a feeling of need, and Darcy wraps her arms around her, looking at her feet. “You’re probably tired,” she whispers. “It’s getting late.”

A crease appears between his eyebrows, but he nods again. “Yeah, of course. I’m—sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you from…I mean, I know it’s a big day tomorrow.”

“Stay,” she breathes, before she can stop herself. When had they gotten so close? When had he moved close enough for her to just stick out her neck to kiss him? Darcy raises herself on her tiptoes, glad he doesn’t move away. Her heart beats dangerously fast and she can feel the flush creeping up her neck. For the moment, she feels just a student again with a crush on her professor. “Just for the night.”

And then his nose is brushing against hers, and Darcy’s eyes close, ready for a kiss that never comes. She can feel Lupin’s breath against her lips when he speaks again, so softly that Darcy isn’t sure if he’s spoken at all. “I shouldn’t.”

Darcy’s eyes flutter open, looking into his face. “Why not?”

“If we’re going to live together the rest of the summer, I...I don’t want to make it any harder when you leave for Hogwarts.”

She pulls away from him slowly, frowning, but nodding her assent. “Goodnight, Remus.”

Lupin hesitates, lingering a little longer to look at her. Finally, he walks himself to the door. “Goodnight, love.”

* * *

“It’s no use, Mrs. Weasley. You’re fighting a losing battle.”

Darcy watches Mrs. Weasley work hard to get Harry’s hair to lie flat, but no matter what she does, it just sticks back up. Harry gives her a pleading look, but Darcy only smiles. She must be strong for Harry today, who looks about to vomit due to nerves. They aren’t the only people around the table—Mr. Weasley eats a quick breakfast beside Darcy, while Tonks speaks to both Lupin and Sirius.

“Seeing the both of you dressed up seems such a rare sight,” Mr. Weasley smiles at them both. “You look radiant, Darcy. And Harry—looking very sharp.”

“Thank you,” Darcy murmurs, as the door to the kitchen opens.

Gemma walks in, slumped over with shadows under her eyes. She’s still in her St Mungo’s robes, covered in some old, brown blood. “Mrs. Weasley,” she mutters, barely coherent. “Can I have some toast to bring upstairs?”

Mrs. Weasley hands Gemma five pieces of toast and she makes to leave the kitchen, stopping to ruffle Harry’s freshly combed hair. “You’ll be fine,” she promises wearily. “You had every right to use magic. I’ll see you in a bit, all right? Might be I’ll even get you some greasy food afterwards to celebrate.”

Harry nods appreciatively, and Gemma leaves the kitchen with her toast. Butterflies fill her stomach, fluttering their little wings as fast as they can. But she doesn’t stop smiling, even just a small smile.

“Now, Darcy,” Mr. Weasley begins again, the same way her started this conversation every time since she’s told him of her desire to be at Harry’s hearing. “If you want to change your mind…”

“Why would I change my mind? I’m not afraid of the Ministry of Magic or Cornelius Fudge.”

“Yes, well...maybe a healthy dose of fear would do you some good,” Mr. Weasley replies quickly. “I hope you’ll be on your best behavior today. If the Ministry is determined to expel Harry over such a trifle, think of what they could do to you.”

Darcy falters, but regains her composure almost immediately, blushing slightly. “Don’t worry. I’ll be good.”

“Scrimgeour’s been asking Kingsley and I funny questions,” Tonks says suddenly, and Darcy looks past Mr. Weasley to her. Yawning, her hair turning purple as she does do, she continues. “Don’t be surprised if anyone tries to question you, Darcy. He’s getting too curious for his own good.”

“This is your last chance.” Mr. Weasley puts his silverware down, awaiting Darcy’s change of heart that will not come. “Harry will be fine. If you’d rather wait for him here, I see no problem with you—”

“I’m going,” she snaps, softening as soon as the words come out of her mouth. Darcy catches Harry’s eyes across the table. “Sorry, Mr. Weasley. I want to go.”

“Very well...then let’s get going...I always like to arrive a little early…”


	9. Chapter 9

“Now...remember what I told you…”

“I _know_ , Mr. Weasley,” Darcy whispers, exasperated. She looks around at the Muggles packed on the train. Blushing furiously when she catches a balding man staring at her, she turns back to Mr. Weasley, lowering her voice even further. “Don’t speak unless spoken do, don’t make contact with Emily or anyone from the Order, and don’t confirm to any official’s face that Voldemort—”

Mr. Weasley gives her a warning look. “Darcy—”

“—is back. Do you think you could loosen your grip?”

His fingers release her forearm, where there are red marks on her skin from where his nails had dug into it. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m just not very comfortable with you coming to the Ministry in its current state. You know you aren’t allowed in the hearing, so why—?”

“I need to be there for Harry,” Darcy says for what must be the hundredth time. “I’ll be fine, Mr. Weasley. I’ll be all right.”

“I’m sorry we haven’t gotten the chance to speak alone,” Mr. Weasley says, forcing a smile and checking the Underground map. “But you seem to be doing well. I’m glad Gemma is able to stay with you. She’s...not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” Darcy asks curiously.

“The potion she’s created,” he whispers into her ear. “I never thought it possible from someone from such a...background. It was a good thing for her to do. Tell me she didn’t use Remus? Tell me he wasn’t the subject she mentioned?”

“He consented,” Darcy answers quickly, wanting to dispel any idea that Gemma had done it of her own will. “Six months they worked at it, and whatever profits are made from the potion, twenty percent of those proceeds will go to him. We talked about it a few nights ago.”

“Twenty percent? That’s generous.” Mr. Weasley raises his eyebrows in surprise.

Lupin had thought so, as well, insisting that Gemma take all of the profit since it was her idea, but Gemma had looked sideways and smiled at Darcy before telling Lupin in a tone that brooked no argument that he’d be receiving twenty percent. “And he’ll get the potion for free for life,” Darcy had added quickly, earning her a warm smile from Lupin.

“Of course,” Gemma had agreed, still smiling at Darcy. “Free potion for life.”

When the train comes to a stop in the heart of London, Mr. Weasley leads them off and looks around the bustling city. When Darcy had accompanied Mr. Weasley to the Ministry of Magic last summer, she’d been old enough to Apparate and it had been a much easier affair. With Harry being underage, it presented some difficulties, including locating the visitors entrance, which Mr. Weasley confesses he’s never used before. The streets are, surprisingly, familiar to Darcy—with Emily’s house so near to the visitors entrance, she’s walked these streets before, and is able to point out a few Muggle restaurants and stores to Harry and Mr. Weasley. While Mr. Weasley is thrilled to hear such mundane tales, Harry seems jittery and not very interested at all.

“I think...it’s right down...ah, yes! This way, children!”

Darcy and Harry exchange a nervous look before following Mr. Weasley down the street. It takes about ten minutes to reach their destination—a red telephone box that’s been vandalized and almost destroyed. Mr. Weasley urges them in, and it’s quite a tight fit. Harry goes in first, his back to the corner; Darcy has to duck upon entering with the ceiling so low, her back pressed against Harry’s chest when Mr. Weasley enters. She’s nearly nose to nose with him when the door closes shut behind him.

“Well then,” he smiles cheerfully, attempting to reach past Darcy for the receiver, but finding the stretch two awkward. “Darcy, push the buttons for me—it’s six, two, four, another four, two.”

Darcy does as he asks, accidentally elbowing Harry in the stomach as she tries to turn. As soon as she dials the last two, a female voice speaks, a familiar one—the one that had spoken in the elevators. Mr. Weasley states their business, and two badges come in the change slot. Darcy grabs them, giving one to Harry stating his name and business and pinning one with just her name on it to her dress. _Darcy Potter, visitor_. Her stomach rolls when the booth begins to sink into the ground, slowly at first, then picking up some speed when it’s completely underground.

The Ministry of Magic is just as it was the last time she’d seen it. Darcy’s shoes click on the black flooring, and when she looks down, her distorted reflection is looking back at her. The fireplaces that line the walls glow green as workers begin to Floo in for work, clad in different colored robes and muttering to themselves, carrying rattling briefcases and papers in their hands. Many of them do a double-take when they spot Harry and Darcy, being led down the Atrium with Mr. Weasley between them. Thankfully, no one speaks to them as they continue their journey. The Fountain of Magical Brethren is still there too, still collecting donations for St Mungo’s. Darcy throws some spare change into the water, thinking of Gemma. Mr. Weasley waits for her to finish and leads them to a desk, where a security guard takes note of Harry and Darcy’s wands.

“Mr. Weasley, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she says, as they pass a hefty blond wizard on their way to the lifts. “Have you had any word of Ludo Bagman?” Some golden grilles open before them, and Darcy puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder, leading him inside.

“Not a single word,” Mr. Weasley answers with a slight frown. “Ludo owed a great many people—and goblins, alike—a lot of money. I don’t think even he’s foolish enough to show his face anywhere near the Ministry just now.” He looked sideways at her, frowning deeper, clapping his hand on her left shoulder. “He spoke of you often and fondly, you know. Ludo Bagman cared a great deal for…”

Darcy tenses as he trails off, feeling his fingers align with the scars on her shoulder. She looks at Harry, and he seems to understand what’s happening—he clenches his jaw tight, grinding his teeth. When Mr. Weasley lifts his hand, Darcy thinks she’s safe for the time being, but he touches the neckline of her dress gently, moving to pull it just slightly out of the way to get a better look at her shoulder. Darcy flushes scarlet. “Mr. Weasley, _please_!” she scoffs.

She’s saved when the lift shudders to a halt, allowing a few other workers to get on. Mr. Weasley lowers his hand to his side immediately and Darcy adjusts the neckline on her dress, clearing her throat. She flattens her dress, feeling very shaky and nervous.

The lift grows more crowded and empties and grows more crowded and empties again with each floor they reach. Flying pieces of parchment folded up to look like paper airplanes follow some people, some purple and others blue and some pink and a few of them are yellow. Sometimes people come in with interesting gossip or intriguing items. One person has an ‘anti-werewolf’ medallion that’s been confiscated, but it vibrates violently when it nears Darcy. Pain surges in her shoulder and Darcy cries out, cradling her shoulder.

“I’m sorry!” the man squeaks, looking around at the startled workers before looking apologetically at Darcy. She’s red in the face, begging the man through gritted teeth to put the medallion away. “I’m so sorry! That’s why I confiscated it! It must be malfunctioning! It isn’t supposed to do that!”

“She’s a werewolf!” a woman in black robes exclaims, making others gasp. “It isn’t malfunctioning!”

Mr. Weasley snorts, but his face is suddenly cold. “She’s not a werewolf. Don’t be ridiculous. Put it away.”

The man pockets the medallion and the pain fades, leaving Darcy panting as they reach the third floor.

“Right,” a man with a gravelly voice says, laughing mockingly. “Only mates with them. Isn’t that right, Darcy Potter?”

When the lifts reach the third floor, everyone filters off except for Darcy, Harry, and Mr. Weasley. It’s quiet for a moment between them, and Darcy stares straight ahead as the lift clambers down lower into the Ministry. “Sorry about that,” Mr. Weasley mutters awkwardly. “You shouldn’t feel ashamed for—”

“I’m not ashamed,” Darcy hisses, her shoulder giving a throb. She makes a mental note to ask Gemma or Lupin about the incident when she returns to Grimmauld Place. The lift stops at the second floor, their destination. “I’m not ashamed. I’ve heard worse.”

They pass the Auror offices, and Harry looks around in awe. She imagines, if the weight of the hearing was not weighing him down, he’d be a bit more excited about things. Emily is talking to a tall and beefy Auror, pointing at something on a scrap of parchment and looking to be arguing. Mad-Eye is nowhere to be found, and Tonks likely still at Grimmauld Place, but they run into Kingsley.

He leads them to his cubicle, plastered with photographs of Sirius. Some of them she’s seen before, others cut out from old newspapers, and one of Sirius straddling a motorbike and flashing the photographer a bright smile, occasionally flicking his hair from his face. Darcy examines this one closely as Kingsley speaks with Mr. Weasley about the false hunt for Sirius.

“Miss Potter,” Kingsley says, making her jump. Mr. Weasley and Harry look ready to go. “A pleasure to see you. Looking beautiful, as ever.”

She smiles weakly, giving a small curtesy. Clearing her throat, she points to the picture of Sirius on his motorbike and Kingsley gives a very small nod. Darcy rips the photograph from the cubicle wall and she folds it, tucking it in her bra and running after her brother and Mr. Weasley.

Darcy’s anxiety has started to kick in now—not that anyone has really done anything other than stare at her, but she continually checks her watch, and Harry has to tell _her_ to ease up before she actually does. She remembers the last time she’d come here, how she had been cornered by Rita Skeeter—not like that could happen now, not after what Hermione had done to her—and Darcy had crumbled all because of a few stupid questions. But now, no one seems very interested in talking to her much. They give she and her brother a wide berth when they carry on towards Mr. Weasley’s office, as if they might catch some contagious disease from getting too close. But it’s not that—it’s not the knowledge that she knows what those people think of she and her brother that bothers her.

His office, to her relief, is the same as it was last summer, too. It’s cramped and cluttered, both Mr. Weasley’s desk and Perkins’s desk covered with leaflets and memos. Darcy seats herself in Perkins’s empty chair, pulling the photograph out of her bra and brushing her thumb over it. Sirius can’t be any older than she is, handsome and still unaffected by Azkaban.

“Put that away,” Mr. Weasley pleads, giving her a copy of some magazine to distract her. “Please, Darcy, let’s just get through the day with no more...incidents, all right?”

She doesn’t answer, but puts the photograph back in her bra and flips through the newest edition of the _Quibbler_ , an outlandish and extreme magazine that Carla had been fond of. She listens absently to Harry and Mr. Weasley speak quietly, yawning.

With Harry’s hearing creeping ever closer, everything that could possibly ever go wrong goes through her head. The idea that Fudge insists Harry is lying discomfits her greatly, and she can’t even stand there and honestly say dementors were there because she wasn’t. She’d made the stupid mistake of sneaking out with Gavin because she was so desperate to be touched and loved and appreciated. Fudge surely won’t be willing to listen to her bleat her support for Harry if she wasn’t truly a witness. And the fact that the Ministry is so insistent on expelling Harry...what would they do to her? Is it possible they’d prevent her somehow from going back to Hogwarts? Would they put her in Azkaban? All for the sole reason of being a Potter? Sister to The Boy Who Lived?

“Darcy?” Mr. Weasley says suddenly. She lifts her eyes and raises an eyebrow, closing the magazine. “Why did that medallion affect you?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers, her mouth very suddenly dry.

“Just show him, Darcy.” Harry looks sheepishly from his sister to Mr. Weasley and back. “He’s bound to find out eventually.”

Darcy shoots Harry a dirty look, but softens immediately. She knows he’s right, knows that Mr. Weasley already suspects something. They’re alone now, and this is the best chance she’s like to get. Darcy rises slowly out of Perkins’s chair, touching the neckline of her dress with a trembling hand. She moves the fabric so most of her shoulder is showing, marred by the three violent scars on her shoulder. Mr. Weasley narrows his eyes at them, and then—

“He did this to you?”

“He couldn’t help it,” Darcy protests, teary-eyed and humiliated. “He didn’t know what he was doing—”

“Did he bite you?”

“No, I swear it—”

“Harry, you knew about this?” Mr. Weasley snaps, looking angry and exasperated and anxious all at the same time. “You knew? And he—are you sure you checked for bites?”

“He never bit me,” Darcy answers. “I would know if I was a werewolf, and—I don’t know, the medallion must have—I mean, there are things that have changed that it might have picked up on, but—”

“She eats her meat raw,” Harry adds, earning him another dangerous look from Darcy as she covers her shoulder.

“I don’t eat my meat raw,” she argues, though if she’s being honest, she does prefer her meat slightly rarer than Harry—or likely anyone—would like when given the choice. Though seeing as she typically had eaten her steak with Lupin, no comments had ever been made. “I _don’t_.”

The door crashes open, making Darcy jump and taking her out of her awful mindset. Perkins is panting in the threshold, glancing around at them all. “Arthur,” he gasps, “an urgent message—Potter’s hearing—eight o’clock now—courtroom ten!”

Darcy checks her watch and yelps. “That was five minutes ago!”

Mr. Weasley drags them both out of the office, thanking Perkins on the way out. They race for the lifts, Darcy speeding far ahead of them and slamming her palm against the lift button over and over again until the grilles open for them. She leaps in and the boys follow. Harry doesn’t argue when she holds him to her like a child, making her swell with love. Her heart beats hard against her chest as Mr. Weasley assigns the lift a destination.

“Why have they changed the time?” Harry asks him in a strained voice.

“I have no idea,” Mr. Weasley frowns. “Those old courtrooms haven’t been used in years…”

“You’ll be all right, Harry,” Darcy promises quietly, kissing the top of his head before they get off the lift. “Don’t worry—you’ll be fine. We’re all rooting for you.”

As soon as she steps off the lift, the scene surprises her. The female voice had called this level the Department of Mysteries, and she thinks it aptly named. It’s unlike any of the other floors she’s seen before, lacking windows and sufficient lighting. The walls and flooring are solid black, and Darcy notices there aren’t many doors except for one at the very end of the corridor, also black. She wraps her hands around Harry’s bicep, following Mr. Weasley.

They turn left before the single door and down more steps to a corridor lit by torches in sconces. She almost feel slightly at home here, the dismal atmosphere reminding her of Snape’s dungeon classroom. There are far more doors in this corridor, but they continue past them to a large door with a heavy iron lock.

Harry hesitates, turning to Darcy, giving her a very pleading look. “Darcy—”

“You’ll be all right,” she whispers, putting her hands on his face. She can nearly see the gears in his brain turning, his breath coming a little quicker. “I’ll be right here, and when you’re cleared, I’ll make you anything you want for dinner tonight—”

“Harry, go!” Mr. Weasley urges, and Harry gives a short, nervous nod.

Harry touches Darcy’s hands, lowering them from his face. His hands are clammy and shaky, and he falls into her, burying his face into his shoulder. She runs a hand through his hair, forcing him off her. “It’s going to be all right,” she breathes, giving him a gentle push towards the door. “Go on.”

He reluctantly obliges, turning the handle and letting himself in. The door shuts heavily, echoing up and down the corridor, leaving Darcy alone with Mr. Weasley. Once Harry is out of sight, she exhales, running her hands through her hair.

“Why is he down here? What’s in that door?”

Mr. Weasley pauses, taking his glasses off to wipe them on his shirt. “These are the courtrooms they used to give old Death Eaters their hearings,” he explains softly, putting his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “They were tried in front of the entire Wizengamot after the First War.”

“Harry only used a Patronus,” she whispers, horrified. “There were dementors and he used a Patronus and—it’s not as if Dudley didn’t already know what Harry and I are—he, he—” She stops, thinking back to the night Vernon had hit her. She remembers Dudley sitting at the top of the stairs with Harry and listening to his father scream at her. His face had been tinged green, his eyes wide with fear. _What did the dementors make him see? Was I too harsh? Was he only trying to be nice to me?_ “It doesn’t matter…Harry had every right to use magic in that situation. They should be concerned about why the dementors were there in the first place—”

“Please, Darcy, keep your voice down—”

“Is this how we must live now?” she continues, pacing back and forth, ignoring Mr. Weasley. “We aren’t criminals—Harry’s just a _boy_ who needed to defend himself! We must live with the fact that the Ministry thinks Harry a liar? That’s he’s crazy? I have to just ignore the fact that everyone sees me as nothing more than the girl that fucks werewolves?”

Mr. Weasley’s ears turn bright red. “Darcy, please…”

“What will they do to me?” she hisses, stopping her pacing. “If they want so badly to expel and discredit Harry, what will they do to me? If I say one wrong thing or slip up just once, they’ll take me out of Hogwarts, won’t they? They’ll send me to Azkaban because of who I am? I wouldn’t last a _day_ in Azkaban and everyone knows it.”

“Darcy, this is war,” Mr. Weasley tells her. “War turns people against each other.”

“It’s a war on _us_!” she snaps, her jaw working furiously. “My every word scrutinized, my every move watched critically. I can’t even fall in love with being mocked to my face.” Darcy can’t help it—her anger spills out of her knowing Harry is likely sitting in one of those chained chairs he’d described other Death Eaters sit in after he’d had his excursion into Dumbledore’s Pensieve. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know you didn’t,” Mr. Weasley sighs, placing his hands upon her shoulders again, trying to calm her. “We know neither of you asked for this, but we are trying to help you—”

“By doing what? By keeping us prisoner? By keeping me a prisoner at Hogwarts to keep an eye on me—?”

Mr. Weasley narrows his eyes at her, lowering his hands to his sides. “Forgive me, but we were under the impression you wanted to return? Severus had told us you...well, that you _asked_ to return to Hogwarts.”

Darcy falters, stammering for a moment and shaking her head. “Well, yes—I did, but—”

“Then you are no prisoner.”

She scrunches her nose. “You don’t understand—”

“Then tell me,” Mr. Weasley begs, grabbing her upper arms and giving her a slight shake. Darcy flinches and he releases her immediately. “Tell us so we _can_ understand.”

“Emily is training to become an Auror, Gemma has created a potion that will surely further her career, everyone in the Order has their own missions, their own duties.” Darcy shrugs helplessly. “And I’m told to do as I’m told. To trust blindly the people who claim to want what’s best for me. I’m told to shut my mouth, to protect my brother, to stay at Hogwarts.”

Mr. Weasley doesn’t seem to have an answer for her. It makes her angry—she feels anger she’s never felt with Mr. Weasley before. Darcy wishes Lupin were here. He’d know what to say, what to do, how to help. He’s always known how to comfort her, and Darcy is sure that he wouldn’t shy away if she needed help even while they aren’t together... _right_?

“Now is not the time to discuss this,” Mr. Weasley says finally, when he thinks she’s calmed down. “We can talk about it at home, but—not here, please.”

She leans against one of the grimy walls, sliding down to sit. Darcy pulls her knees to her chest and waits. Even in the still and uneasy silence, she can’t hear a word going on inside of the courtroom, but it isn’t long until she hears fast footsteps coming closer—footsteps that seem to have some kind of purpose. Darcy thinks they’ll stop, just to enter some other hidden corridor, but when someone in sweeping, purple robes makes his way down the stairs, Darcy jumps to her feet.

“Professor Dumbledore—”

But he completely ignores her and Mr. Weasley, making the courtroom door open with a graceful flourish of his wand. Darcy tries to peek inside, but the door slams shut. She looks to Mr. Weasley hopefully, her mood instantly changed—if anyone can get Harry off, it’s Dumbledore. He drapes an arm around her, sweating, very white in the face. Darcy appreciates the gesture of comfort, resting her head on his shoulder in much the way she enjoys doing with Sirius. It makes her feel stronger—or that could just be the fact that Dumbledore has arrived to save the day.

The rest of the wait is silent.

It isn’t a long wait, truthfully; Dumbledore is the first to leave the courtroom, not even bothering to tell either Darcy or Mr. Weasley the verdict. This makes Darcy’s heart sink to her stomach, but then Harry walks out and grabs his sister, wrapping her in a hug so tight that her feet momentarily leave the ground.

“Good news, then?” she chuckles, smiling wide.

“Cleared of all charges,” Harry announces.

“I knew you would be,” Darcy laughs again, but she breaks off at the sound of the door opening behind them. The Wizengamot files out, made up of all different kinds of people, some who are friendlier than others. At the rear is Cornelius Fudge, who tries very hard to avoid looking at Harry and Mr. Weasley. However, he starts slightly at the sight of Darcy standing there and stops in his tracks. The woman walking beside him looks at Darcy curiously, her lips pursed together in a very smug sort of way, before passing.

“Miss Potter.” Fudge clears his throat. “I had not thought to see you here.” He casts Harry a dark look before giving Darcy a very false and forced smile. “Walk with me.”

Mr. Weasley gives her a short nod, leading Harry ahead of them. She falls into step with the Minister of Magic. Memories of their last meeting flood her mind, and she feels another surge of anger, but tries desperately to keep her head.

“You’re a smart girl, Darcy,” he begins, but his tone is not at all kind. “Surely you’ve come to your senses. I know that night was hard on all of us, and—”

“None more so than Harry,” she replies.

Fudge scoffs, but sighs, clearing his throat a little more louder. “Perhaps I was a bit...ah...hasty in serving up judgement during our last conversation,” he begins again, his voice level. “You caught me on a very trying day, I’m afraid.”

Darcy knows what he wants, but she will not indulge him, not even with an apology.

“Surely you don’t believe this nonsense about You-Know-Who,” he continues, placing a hand on her back to guide her along. Darcy shakes him off, startling him. “I know there is some sense in you.”

Darcy lowers her voice. Do not confirm to any official’s face that Voldemort is back. “We were both there the night Cedric Diggory was murdered, Minister,” she whispers, catching up to Harry and Mr. Weasley. “And I find it very troubling that two dementors found their way to Privet Drive.”

“And are you able to attest to that?” Fudge asks her sharply. “Are you able to confirm these dementors were, in fact, at Privet Drive?”

She has the feeling Fudge already knows the answer. “I have no reason to believe Harry was lying. I saw my cousin after his encounter with them, and Dudley has never been in such a state.”

“Surely after seeing such magic—”

“Forgive my interruption, Minister,” she smiles sweetly, “but Dudley has seen magic before. Why should he have been so frightened of a Patronus?”

Fudge grits his teeth, turning red with anger. Mr. Weasley wrings his hands together anxiously, as if he knows what Darcy and Fudge are talking about. He extends a hand for her when Darcy draws closer and she takes it, allowing herself to be led away from Fudge.

“Remind me never to take you anywhere again,” he says with a weak smile. “What would Dumbledore say if he knew I’d let you alone with the Minister of Magic? Even for a little bit?”

Darcy can’t help but smile, draping an arm around Harry’s shoulder. “He’d likely be very proud of me that I didn’t hex him,” she answers slyly.

Mr. Weasley gives an exasperated sigh. “Don’t say things like that too loud.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Cleared of all charges!”

The kitchen erupts into cheers. Fred and George bang on the table loudly, rattling everyone’s leftover breakfasts. Ginny soon joins them in a very loud, but very happy, war chant. Ron pats Harry on the shoulder and Hermione, though insisting she knew he’d get off all along, looks greatly relieved at this news. Tonks and Mrs. Weasley smile at him, and both Sirius and Lupin shake Harry’s hand.

Darcy allows Harry this attention, standing off to the side and laughing as Mrs. Weasley attempts to quiet Fred, George, and Ginny. Lupin steps back as Harry’s friends swarm him again, taking a place at Darcy’s side. “A funny thing happened at the Ministry after the hearing,” she whispers to him, though Lupin still has to lean in to hear her with the shouting. “Fudge didn’t care much about Harry or Mr. Weasley, but he spoke to me.”

“And what did he say?”

“He wanted to hear whether I believed Harry or not,” Darcy explains, and Lupin cocks an eyebrow.

“Darcy…” he sighs. “What did you say?”

“What?” Darcy snaps, crossing her arms over her chest. “I didn’t outright confirm it, but I made my position clear.”

Lupin grabs her upper arm and forces her out of the kitchen, closing the door behind them. It’s highly unlikely anyone will notice their disappearance with everything that’s happening. He pushes her gently up against the wall just at the base of the staircase and speaks in a hushed voice. “You cannot go saying things like that to the Minister of Magic,” he hisses. “This isn’t Hogwarts. Cornelius Fudge isn’t Severus. He won’t give you any free passes. Everything you say matters very much now.”

“So I should have lied?” Darcy whispers furiously, frowning up at him. “I should have told him I think Harry and Dumbledore are liars? What would you have done?”

He grinds his teeth for a moment, thinking. His gaze is focused so intensely on her that it makes her blush. “I wouldn’t have gone to the Ministry in the first place. Do you have any idea what they could do to you?”

“I know what they could do to me—”

“Then why don’t you keep your mouth shut?” Lupin growls. He moves closer to Darcy, glancing quickly towards the kitchen door, but the celebrations continue within, leaving everyone ignorant to their conversation. “Do you want to give Dumbledore no choice but to make you leave Hogwarts? You’re not a student anymore—Dumbledore’s protection will only take you so far, especially while he’s on such thin ice. Do you want the Ministry to find a reason to throw you into Azkaban?”

“No, but I—”

“Darcy, please, listen to me.” Lupin touches her arms, growing increasingly frustrated. Just the simple contact makes her skin burn hot and Lupin pulls away quickly as if he’s felt the heat, too. Looking again at the door, he takes her arm and pulls her further away from the kitchen, into the drawing room with the massive family tree on the wall. He closes the door behind them.

“Have you brought me here to scold me?” she asks, scrunching her nose. Darcy runs her fingertips over the burn mark on the tapestry where Sirius’s name had once been embroidered in gold. “I’m tiring of people telling me to shut up.”

“Maybe they’re right,” Lupin interrupts, taking a few steps closer to her. “You’re a sweet girl who has been through too much, and I would hate to see you lose everything because you don’t know when to stop talking.” He takes another step forward, hesitant. “I couldn’t bear to see you in Azkaban.”

Her breath hitches for a moment at this confirmation of her fears. “Would they really send me to Azkaban?”

“There’s no telling what Fudge would do,” Lupin frowns. “That’s why it’s so important for you to keep a level head. Last year and even the year before, your inability to remain quiet was quite— _endearing_ , if not exasperating, but now...now it’s dangerous, and you have to understand that. If Fudge sees you as a threat—”

“I’m a nineteen-year-old girl,” Darcy counters, and a muscle twitches in Lupin’s jaw as he nods politely. “I’m not a threat.”

“Anyone who has the influence to turn his own people against him is a threat,” Lupin continues, and Darcy admires his own ability to keep calm. “Why do you think Fudge is so afraid of Dumbledore? It’s because Dumbledore is credible, Dumbledore is clever, Dumbledore is powerful, and Dumbledore has the ability to make people see reason—the truth.”

Darcy scoffs nervously, shaking her head. “I’m not like Dumbledore,” she answers. “I’m not a threat to the Minister of Magic. I’m not credible anymore—people look at me and laugh. Why would they believe anything that I have to say? Why should Fudge be afraid of me?”

He shrugs. “He tried to expel Harry from Hogwarts because he used a Patronus in the presence of his own family. He’s afraid because it’s becoming impossible to deny Voldemort is back.”

Darcy sighs heavily, looking away from him. She begins to pace the drawing room, thinking hard. Unable to come up with a proper response, she looks back to Lupin and finds him still watching her. “I’ve always admired the way you say his name.”

This makes him smile weakly. “I’ve always admired that about you, as well.”

She smiles back, but it soon falters when she remembers something else she had been meaning to tell him. “Mr. Weasley saw the scars.” Darcy watches all of the blood drain from his face, his smile wiped clean off. Lupin runs a stiff hand through his hair. “Someone on the lift had confiscated an anti-werewolf medallion, and when it got close to my shoulder, it hurt and he thought it was malfunctioning and Mr. Weasley, well...he asked me why and Harry told me I should just show him, so I did.”

Lupin doesn’t say anything for a moment, swallowing loudly and shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “Are you hurt?”

“No—!” She shakes her head quickly, and Lupin seems relieved. “I’m not hurt.”

“All right. And, er—what did he say?”

“He was just...surprised,” Darcy says, giving him a forced smile. Her smile suddenly fades and she notices his eyebrows knit together. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, and Darcy realizes how long it’s been since he’s apologized for it. “I’m so sorry, Darcy.”

“It’s all right,” she answers, rubbing her shoulder absently. “I don’t eat my meat raw, do I?”

“You don’t—what?” Lupin blinks in surprise, his words catching in his throat. “I’m sorry?”

“Do I eat my meat raw? When I cook, do I cook it enough?”

“You’ve always eaten your meat rare, Darcy,” Lupin says slowly, as if walking himself into a trap. “I never minded, but I don’t think I would have ever let you serve me anything raw. We’re not wild animals—most of time, anyway.”

Darcy pauses, then laughs softly at the sight of his smile. Lupin chuckles with her. “Could I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Do you think that…that going back to Hogwarts—to help Snape—” Darcy gives an uncomfortable shrug. “Do you think that...that’s something to be proud of?”

“Of course it’s something to be proud of,” Lupin smiles, shaking his hair out of his eyes. Darcy resists the urge reach out and brush it back with her fingers. “Teaching is an admirable thing. You should be very proud.”

“You make it sound like I’m not just an assistant,” Darcy frowns, looking down at her shoes. “It’s not like I’m changing lives, or instilling some passion in them for Potions…”

“You’re assisting in the education of young witches and wizards. You’re changing their lives by doing little things, whether it’s by whispering help in Neville’s ear while Severus’s back is turned, or making the first years laugh.”

“What _you_ did changed lives,” Darcy retorts, feeling incredibly small and very childish.

“You think so?”

“You changed mine, and Harry’s.” Darcy inhales deeply and looks back up into his face. “You were a good teacher,” she whispers. “You were a great teacher.”

He flashes her a toothy smile. “Thank you.”

It all becomes very overwhelming—remembering better times spent nuzzled up him on the sofa in front of a roaring fire; taking walks throughout the grounds with her hands wrapped around his arms; the few stolen kisses they’d shared in his apartments, hidden away from the whole world. Darcy suddenly feels like crying, not wanting to be subjected to his gaze anymore, not wanting to be reminded that _she isn’t enough_. “I should…” She wraps her arms around herself, forcing herself to look at the tapestry. “I should probably let Gemma know that Harry was cleared.”

Lupin hums in response. “Do I make you uncomfortable, Darcy?”

His question shocks her. Not only does she think it a stupid question to ask, but it’s one she doesn’t really want to answer. Of course _he_ doesn’t make her uncomfortable—it’s the fact that whenever he’s standing in front of her, all she can think of is running her fingers through his hair, kissing every inch of his body, feeling his back muscles flex and tense as he fucks her. “No,” she says quietly, looking back at the tapestry. “I should go check on Gemma.”

Lupin nods, stepping aside to allow her to pass.

* * *

Gemma doesn’t move at all when Darcy comes tiptoeing into the dark room, reaching for her photo album. Her voice muffled by the pillow, Gemma grunts, “And the verdict is?”

“Cleared of all charges.”

Within seconds, Gemma is fast asleep again, snoring softly. Darcy creeps back downstairs to the kitchen, where Lupin has regained his seat at the table, talking jovially to Harry. She smiles shyly at him before taking the empty seat beside Sirius. He grins at her, glancing at the album in her arms and furrowing his brow.

“What have you got there?” he asks curiously, reaching out to touch it.

Darcy lets him run his fingers over the spine. “I’ve just finished it—would you like to look?”

Sirius brings her back to his own bedroom to allow Gemma more time to sleep. Hidden away from the rest of the guests in the house, who continue to celebrate Harry being cleared of all charges, Darcy flips through the photo album with Sirius beside her. She tells him the story behind each and every picture, relishing the smile he gives at the sight of Darcy as a young girl. She imagines that her father would have the same look on his face if he were in Sirius’s position, imagines that James would look at her with love and pride. Sirius is more interested in the photo album than Darcy had ever imagined he would be, but it’s all right with her. He doesn’t turn his nose up at any of the pictures of she and Lupin, either. It’s then that she realizes she doesn’t even know how Sirius found out, and thinks it a perfect time to find out herself.

“What did Remus tell you?” she asks, watching Sirius’s gray eyes rove over the pages of the album, his long fingers turning each page. “When he told you we...you know…”

Sirius lifts his eyes to look into her own. He looks almost sad, but whether for her or for his friend, she isn’t sure. Darcy remembers how he had reacted upon finding out they’d been intimate, and the memory isn’t necessarily a very good one. “He told me that it was for the best,” Sirius replies, rather coolly. “That you weren’t ready for what he wanted, and that he wasn’t going to push you into it.”

“Oh.” Darcy isn’t sure what she’d expected, but it certainly isn’t this. She and Sirius hold each other’s gaze for a little while, and Darcy is proud of herself for not allowing any tears to come. “Right.”

Sirius narrows his eyes. “ _Is_ that the reason?”

She nods quickly, looking back at the photo album. Their brief conversation is soon forgotten as they continue to flip through the pages together. As they near the end, Darcy remembers another photograph that’s been tucked in her bra. She quickly retrieves it, earning her a baffled look from her godfather, but when she unfolds it, he lets out a bark of laughter. He takes it from her hands, shaking his head as if remembering better days.

“That’s the bike I let Hagrid borrow when he…” Sirius covers his mouth, rubbing his chin. “When he took you to your aunt and uncle’s.”

A heavy silence blankets them. Darcy takes a long, hard look at him. Sometimes she can’t believe he’s the same man she’d met in the Shrieking Shack that night. He had looked a corpse that night, his face so hollow it might have been a skull. He hasn’t retained many of those features—he is somewhat handsome again, has put on a few healthy pounds. But she doesn’t miss the look in his eye when he glances sideways at her for just a moment. His eyes are cold and hard again, just as they had been slightly over a year ago now.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, unsure if she wants to know the answer. Darcy knows there are probably lots of things wrong, and she feels stupid for it.

“So Harry’s going back to Hogwarts.” It’s not so much as a question. Sirius’s mouth forms a tight line.

Darcy nods. “Yes,” she says slowly. “Where he belongs.” She closes the album on her lap and sets it aside as Sirius frowns. “I know what you’re thinking. Did you really think Harry was going to stay here? You know that he belongs at Hogwarts, Sirius.”

“I didn’t really think…” Sirius grumbles something under his breath. For a moment, Darcy is reminded so of Harry—a teenager—that she’s caught off guard. “I thought _you_ might.”

“Oh.” Darcy’s mouth goes dry, and then she digests what Sirius has just said. “Wait—what? You want me to stay?”

Sirius shrugs sheepishly. “You don’t belong at Hogwarts, with _Snape_ ,” he growls. “You belong here, where we can be a family again.”

Darcy feels her heartbeat quicken, and she touches her chest. “Sirius, I—” _Why does he have to ask me this now?_ “I’m—I want that...very much, but I can’t. I have to go back to be with Harry. Harry’s my family, too.”

“Darcy, please—” Sirius grabs her roughly by the upper arm and she flinches. He releases her at once, running his hands through his hair. “Hagrid had to _pry_ you off my chest all those years ago, and now I’ve gotten you back. I regret that we weren’t able to be together last year, but—but now—”

“Please don’t ask that of me,” she whispers, tears filling her eyes. “Please, Sirius—I have to go back.”

Her chest aches with the pain of her broken heart. To think that she could have a life here, with Sirius and Lupin and maybe even Gemma—to celebrate holidays and birthdays together, to make up for all the years she’d been separated from Sirius. But no place is home without Harry, and who’s to say—if she decided to stay—Dumbledore would even allow her to visit? She’d have to wait the entire school year to be with her brother again, and to know that he’s at Hogwarts without her, where danger has always followed him…

She had already made this choice once and it cost her Lupin. _What will I lose if I choose Harry? I cannot lose Sirius now—not when we’ve finally become a family again_. Darcy had told him she loved him—and she does. _Will he still love me?_

“I’ll be here on weekends, and maybe some days during the week, I can sneak away.” She reaches out for his hand, but Sirius flinches away. Darcy feels the first tears fall then. “I’m sorry it’s not enough for you.”

She gets to her feet, wanting to escape the confinement of his bedroom, wanting to escape his presence. Wiping her face with her palm, she gathers up her photo album and leaves.

* * *

“You can’t let him make you feel guilty,” Gemma sighs. She growls when Darcy tugs a little too sharply on her hair. “You belong at Hogwarts with Harry and—much to his disgust, _Snape_.”

“Don’t say that,” Darcy snaps, breaking up the knot with the brush. Gemma’s dark hair brushes against her shoulders, thick and messy from sleep. “Stop talking about Snape.”

“You’re friendly with him,” Gemma teases. “Don’t deny it.”

“We have a good working relationship.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” Gemma chuckles, stretching her legs out in front of her as Darcy brings the brush through her hair a few more times. “I’m serious, Darcy. There’s no reason for you to stay here. You can’t even go outside here—at least at Hogwarts you’ll get some fresh air.”

“He’s lonely,” Darcy tells her, looking in the mirror and pulling her shirt down to examine the scars on her shoulder. She touches one lightly, but it’s just fleshy and painless. “I know how he feels.” Darcy turns suddenly to face Gemma, who’s lighting up a cigarette. “If I stay, I could try again with Remus.”

Gemma purses her lips. “Look, Darcy, I like Lupin—I do!—and not to channel my inner Emily, but would you really put him before Harry? After all that’s happened this past year?”

“But it wouldn’t be just Remus,” Darcy protests, allowing Gemma to slip a lit cigarette between her fingers. Darcy brings it to her mouth, beginning to pace the bedroom. “I’d be getting a real family, a real home.” And then, wringing her hands together, she confesses softly, “I love him.”

“I know you do.” Gemma shrugs, as if this is just the way life has to be. “But this is what Dumbledore was saying back in June, wasn’t it? We have to make choices now, and they won’t all be easy. I think you’re making the right choice.”

“It’s the only thing I’ve ever known—taking care of Harry.” Darcy drags her fingers through her hair. “It’s all I’ve known, ever since I can remember, and…” She huffs, trying to regain her dignity. “Weren’t you the one telling me I should just run away with Remus in the first place?”

“It would be the easy thing to do, wouldn’t it?” Gemma smiles weakly. “Can I tell you something?”

Darcy nods.

“I’m scared everyday,” she says, laughing bitterly. “I could leave, I could just fall under my parents’ protection and live whatever miserable life that would entail. I want to be as far away from this war as possible.”

“Then why are you here?” Darcy asks, perhaps a bit too sharply. Gemma’s face hardens for a moment, anger flashing in her dark eyes, but it’s gone just as quick as it had come on.

“Because of you,” Gemma admits bluntly. “Because I admire you bravery—your convictions. You’re willing to throw yourself into the middle of a war for your brother. And I know you’re scared—you’re always scared.”

They share a quiet chuckle and Darcy confirms this.

“But you know that it’s the right thing to do, so you do it,” Gemma continues. “You’re so sure that it’s the right thing to do, and...and damn the consequences.”

But Darcy doesn’t think that’s quite right. _Damn the consequences_. That’s wrong. Darcy suffers greatly because of the consequences of her decisions. She’ll never be enough for Lupin because of her decision to put Harry first, and now she isn’t enough for Sirius. The knowledge of this weighs heavily on her, and makes her doubt her decision even now. She knows Gemma’s only trying to make her feel better and less guilty, but all it does it make her feel worse.

“You sound like a Gryffindor,” Darcy says, a feeble attempt at humor.

“Houses don’t matter during war,” Gemma scoffs, putting her cigarette out. She takes the one from Darcy’s fingers and the ash falls to the floor. Darcy only stares at it. “You think You-Know-Who will care if I was a Slytherin if he finds out I’m part of the Order?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Darcy rasps. “No one’s asking you to—”

“I _know_ no one’s asking me to do anything,” Gemma snaps, startling Darcy. “I’m not doing it _for_ anyone. I’m doing it because it’s the right thing to do, and if I die for it, well...damn the consequences.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Professor Dumbledore! I’m sorry, I...you startled me.”

Dumbledore chuckles from the threshold of the drawing room door, his hands held behind his back. “Remus told me you were still awake,” he says, nodding in the general direction of the kitchen. “And I thought I would check in before I left for the night.”

Darcy doesn’t like admitting it, even to herself, but she has come to deeply appreciate Dumbledore’s willingness to check in on her every so often. She craves the affirmation and validation he so often gives her, the prideful smiles he leaves her with. With everyone mostly fretting over Harry—and with good reason—it’s nice to know Dumbledore still cares to see how she’s doing. He takes another step into the drawing room, closing the door behind him to give them privacy, despite most of the house guests being asleep.

“May I sit with you?”

She nods, smiling weakly and making room for him on the sofa. When Dumbledore’s gaze falls on the bottle of firewhisky on the table, she blushes. She’s already drank quite a bit; the room is beginning to grow very warm and soon she’ll need to lie down. The fire crackles happily, warming them both as Dumbledore takes a seat beside her. Darcy draws her knees up to her chest as Dumbledore smiles at her. “Would you...like a glass, Professor?”

“Thank you, Darcy,” he sighs contently, producing his wand and waving it gracefully. A small glass appears on the table, and Darcy pours it. “Truthfully, I don’t drink much firewhisky. I’m preferable to brandy, or even on cold nights, Madam Rosmerta’s warm, honeyed mead or spiced wine. She has an excellent wine with hints of cinnamon—have you tried it? It warms an old man’s bones.”

“No, sir,” she answers with a soft laugh. “But Mr. Bagman was very fond of the mead.”

“Yes, I’m sure he was,” Dumbledore grins, his blue eyes twinkling in the glow of the firelight. “Ludo was fond of many fine things, including you. You took to him in a way I had not expected.”

“Even if he was a false friend, he was a better friend than most I’ve known, Professor,” Darcy says, frowning. “I miss him more than I thought I ever would.”

“I don’t think he was a false friend to you,” Dumbledore replies quickly, and the thought makes her a bit happier. He takes a sip of firewhisky, smacking his lips. “An acquired taste, for certain. But you’ve been drinking this for many years now, haven’t you?”

She blushes again, but provides no answer.

“It’s all right to tell me how you feel, Darcy,” Dumbledore finally continues, placing his glass back on the table. “I would quite understand it if you were feeling troubled. Whisked away without any explanation—though Remus did admit he confided in you some answers. Are you enjoying your stay here?”

She nods again, looking around the drawing room. Darcy isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol she’s drank that makes her tear up so quickly, or if she’s just been holding so many tears back. “I don’t even want to go back to Privet Drive,” she whispers, almost pleadingly. “I could have grown up here. I could have been loved here. I still could be loved here. Sirius wants me to stay.”

“This is no permanent home for you, and I’m afraid Sirius knows it.” Dumbledore sits up straighter, holding his hands in his lap. “Not now, anyway. A life in hiding is not for you, and I fear you would grow restless. Restlessness often tends to lead to recklessness. At least, at Hogwarts, you would have Harry. And you are always welcome to visit here during the weekends.”

“It’s not enough for Sirius,” Darcy says sadly, taking a long drink from her half-empty glass. “Why can’t I be enough for them? Why can’t I have both Hogwarts and a real family?”

Dumbledore frowns at her, looking far too apologetic. “I am sorry for what happened to you, Darcy. All of it. I like to think love is a magic more powerful than any in existence—it has the ability to heal even the worst wounds, but it has the ability to hurt, as well. And it is never easy.”

Darcy looks into the fire, intent on avoiding Dumbledore’s eyes. She has the feeling Dumbledore knows exactly how she’s feeling, and looking into his eyes would be a dead giveaway.

“You’re nervous about returning to Hogwarts,” he says, neither a question or a statement, but somewhere in between. “It happened last year, when you found a home with Remus.”

Darcy sighs, hugging her arms around her legs, resting her chin atop her knees. “I feel like I...like I don’t belong anywhere. Like nowhere will ever truly be home for me. I wish this place—Sirius’s house—could be my...forever home. All of the people I love are here.”

“And come the first of September, half of them will be gone,” Dumbledore reminds her gently. “Harry and his friends will go back to Hogwarts, Arthur and Molly back to the Burrow.”

“I suppose you’re right, sir.” Darcy chews on her bottom lip a moment. “Isn’t there anything we can do for Sirius? I worry about him.”

“If there was anything I could do to help him, I would do it. It will take Sirius years to readjust to the outside world again.” Dumbledore smiles sweetly at her again. “However, I think returning to him on weekends and whenever you can will help very much.”

“He hates it here. He told me so.” Darcy sighs heavily. “What if I told you I wanted to stay, sir? In hiding or no?”

“I think you know what I would say.” Dumbledore takes another sip of his drink, getting to his feet. “I’m sure we will see each other again before the start of term.”

He leaves her feeling worse than she did before. For the past few days, since she and Sirius had looked at the photo album, he’s been distant towards her. She doesn’t want to blame him-after all, he’d spent over a decade in Azkaban with no one to care for him, with no one to love him, or show him affection—but part of her is angry that he’s acting so childish about it. Surely Sirius should be proud of her determination to protect Harry as best she can? Harry means a great deal to him, she knows—doesn’t he want to see Harry safe, too?

With Gemma back at St Mungo’s for the night, Darcy retires to her bedroom and climbs into the empty bed. Even with it being just Gemma she’s been sharing the bed with, Darcy has to admit it’s been nice having someone to sleep next to. But Gemma doesn’t hold her at night unless Darcy suffers from a nightmare—which, thankfully, have been far and few lately—and Darcy starts to miss the feeling of fingertips whispering against her skin in the mornings, lips pressed to her shoulder blade in the morning light, legs tangled together and the steady beating of Lupin’s heart with her back pressed against his chest. She wonders if he misses it, too—wonders if he lays in bed feeling lonely and cold, wonders if he reaches out at night out of habit, just to touch her, and grows sad when he realizes he’s alone. At least Darcy has Gemma, but Lupin doesn’t have anyone to share his bed, and the thought makes her sad.

What she wouldn’t give to fall asleep and wake up beside him each and every morning, to wake with soft kisses against her spine, kisses that give her chills. She wants to know how it feels to be touched again, how it feels to be _loved_ again. At the thought of Lupin touching her, kissing her with a hand between her legs, Darcy feels a stirring in her core, hating herself. She feels like a student again, like a child, lying in her four poster and aching for him. What would he really do if Darcy just slipped into bed with him? Just for a night? Just to sleep? _No, he doesn’t want me. He left me because I wasn’t enough for him. Why would he want me in his bed?_ The thought disgusts her, so she rolls over and forces herself to go to sleep.

Headquarters is busy the next morning, the kitchen table full of people. Emily and Tonks laugh together over their breakfast, having stopped by before heading into the Ministry; Sirius makes a sleepy-eyed Gemma, Lupin, and Mundungus Fletcher laugh with a wild story from his boyhood at another end of the table; Mrs. Weasley walks around the table in a nightgown, scooping more food onto plates where she sees fit; Mr. Weasley sits with Bill, Fred, and George, detailing his encounter with a self-regurgitating toilet that had been reported a few days ago; Hermione and Ginny play with Crookshanks, giggling on the floor as they roll butterbeer corks back and forth; Harry and Ron shovel food into their mouths. A few people lift their eyes as Darcy walks into the kitchen, still exhausted and slightly hungover. Gemma seems to notice, a wicked grin creeping onto her face.

Mrs. Weasley offers to make more food for Darcy, but she shakes her head and accepts some dry toast, retreating back up to her room. It’s strangely quiet upstairs, but she can hear Kreacher muttering to himself down the corridor. With all the commotion in the kitchen, Darcy feels a world away from them all, not able to hear a single sound from downstairs. She digs around in her dresser drawer, extracting the small bottle of firewhisky she and Gemma have been working on, and takes it to the bathroom, locking herself in side. She runs a hot bath, so hot that it takes her a moment to actually force herself to get in. Darcy’s skin turns pink at the contact, but after a moment, she gets rather used to it and even starts to sweat from the thick steam.

She thinks of Hogwarts—of the stone walls that seem so much like the bars of a prison cell sometimes. But why? Dumbledore has always allowed her a good amount of freedom. Hogsmeade is nearby, and the weekends mean leaving for just a short while. Hogwarts had once been her true home while she was a student. She had felt safe within those walls for the first few years, didn’t have to worry about Vernon shouting at her or hitting her, didn’t have to worry about sneaking around. But she’d been stupid then—she’d been a child. She’d never known a real home like Lupin’s, or like Grimmauld Place.

As she drinks straight from the bottle, Darcy’s head stops hurting so much, feeling herself growing drunker. Each time the water starts to cool, she promptly picks up her wand and heats the water back up, sinking to her chin. The bathtub is a little small for her entire body to be submerged; Darcy’s legs hang over the side, slightly chilly, goosebumps up and down them. Time begins to creep by, and Ron is the first one to knock.

“Who’s in there?” Ron groans. “Darcy, is that you? You’ve been in there for hours. Get out so I can use the bathroom.”

“Use the other bathroom,” Darcy growls as Ron continues to knock frantically on the door. “Go away, I’m taking a bath.”

“Come on,” he pleads. “The other bathroom hasn’t been cleaned yet and there are spiders the size of my fist—”

“Then now would be an opportune time to start cleaning, wouldn’t it?” Darcy retorts. “I told you, I’m taking a bath.”

Ron proceeds to mutter under his breath, calling her names out of sheer frustration. When Darcy shouts at him that she’s going to tell his mother what he’s said, Ron disappears rather quickly and quietly.

Gemma comes round in the next hour or so, knocking lightly. “Let’s go out for food,” she says. “I’m starving and it’s my day off.”

“Go away,” Darcy groans, running a hand through her hair and heating up the water again. When the doorknob jiggles furiously, Darcy yelps. “Stop! Don’t come in here!”

“Darcy, we’ve been sharing a bed for weeks now,” Gemma counters, but she releases the doorknob. “I don’t care if you’re naked.” She sighs heavily from the other side of the door. “Come on, Darcy, it’s just me out here. What are you doing in there?”

“I’m taking time for myself,” Darcy answers, taking another drink of firewhisky. “Can you bring me some cigarettes? Just roll them through the gap at the bottom of the door.”

Gemma is quiet for a moment, and Darcy can almost see in her mind’s eye the incredulous look on her face. “No,” she scoffs. “If you want a cigarette, then get out of the bath. Maybe other people want to be clean, as well, you selfish bastard.”

“Then they’ll have to wait,” Darcy snaps. She hears shuffling outside the door and urgent whispering, and she frowns. “Who else is out there?”

“No one,” Gemma says quickly, and then—“All right, fine, it’s Harry.”

“Let’s play some chess,” Harry suggests, a bit too brightly for Darcy’s liking. “We could use the set Gavin got for me so the pieces don’t cheat.”

“I want to hear more about Gavin anyway,” Gemma says, and Darcy knows she’s smiling. “All I’ve really heard of him was what Lupin told me, and god—what a nightmare that man is when he’s jealous.”

“Are you done, Gemma?” Darcy hisses, and Gemma falls silent.

“Come on, Harry,” Gemma says, and Darcy can hear their shoes scuffing the hardwood floor outside. “I’ll play chess with you.”

Darcy appreciates their efforts to get her out of the bath, especially with her skin growing so wrinkly, probably so soft and warm it’ll soon slough right off her bones. She’s left alone for a time until someone else knocks upon the door, making her roll her eyes in annoyance.

“Come out of the bathroom,” Sirius says in his most paternal voice he can muster. It makes Darcy scoff. “You’ve missed lunch, but Molly said she’ll make you whatever you want.”

“I’m not hungry. Could I be left alone for more than forty-five minutes before the entire house thinks I’ve gone crazy?”

“Darcy...don’t do this,” Sirius warns.

“Don’t do _what_ , exactly?”

Sirius grumbles under his breath and Darcy flares with anger.

“I hate when you do that!” she shouts, slinking lower into the water and taking another drink, letting the firewhisky burn her throat and warm her stomach. “Just go away, Sirius.”

He does, and Darcy finds it makes her more sad. She drinks again, heating up the water. Lost in her own thoughts, she doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching the door an hour after Sirius. They’re heavy footsteps, and they linger outside for a few moments before he speaks.

“I brought you some things,” Lupin says quietly. She hears the popping of his knees as he squats outside the door. Darcy sits up in the bathtub, wondering what he’s doing, and she sees Lupin squeeze a soft pack of cigarettes under the door, along with a lighter, and a thin novel. She hesitates, unsure of what to say. “I hope you don’t mind, I, er...I went into your room to get everything.”

Darcy swallows hard. “No,” she rasps. “No, it’s fine. Thank you.”

“Come out of there,” Lupin whispers, barely loud enough for Darcy to hear him. “Come out of there and whatever is bothering you, we will talk about it.”

She doesn’t answer, not trusting herself to answer, hoping he’ll just go away.

“I know Sirius asked you to stay, Darcy.” Lupin’s voice is soft and sad, and slightly weak. With a jolt, Darcy remembers the full moon is in a few days. But with Gemma’s potion and with all of his friends nearby to distract them both, the thought had slipped Darcy’s mind completely. “I know you’re upset. Come out. Everyone’s worried about you.”

Darcy frowns. “Leave me.”

His retreating footsteps make her feel, if possible, even worse. She had hoped he’d come in anyway to comfort her. She had hoped he’d have ignored her completely and wrapped her in his arms. After a while, she drains the bath and dries off, changing back into her clothes, but she doesn’t want to leave. She lights up a cigarette and opens the book, beginning to read, still sitting in the empty bathtub. It’s difficult to read being slightly drunk, but it distracts her enough. To her surprise, no one bothers her again until she’s four chapters into the book. Darcy expects it to be Harry, or Sirius come to tell her off, but the voice on the other side of the door surprises her greatly.

“Get dressed and meet me in the kitchen,” comes Snape’s bored drawl.

So surprised is she, that Darcy waves her wand and opens the bathroom door to see if she’s not hearing things. Snape is, in fact, standing on the other side, looking irritable. Darcy closes her book slowly, not bothering to get up from the tub. “Who sent _you_?” she hisses, scrunching her nose.

“No one sent me,” Snape counters, entering the bathroom and closing the door behind him. He walks right up to the side of the bath, takes the lit cigarette from Darcy’s lips, and puts it out on the ground. Darcy looks at him curiously, as if for the first time, not sure if she should admire his boldness or be angry with him. “You smell terrible.”

“Thanks,” Darcy scowls. “Can you leave now?”

Snape bends down to pick up the bottle of firewhisky, sealing it. “If you want to be a drunk, be my guest. You’d fit right in with your godfather. But no assistant of mine will be a drunk, Darcy.”

“I’m not a drunk,” Darcy hisses, and Snape raises his eyebrows. She leans back in the tub, looking up at the ceiling, sighing. “Why are you here?”

He doesn’t answer, working his jaw. Darcy looks into his face, her eyebrows knitting together. Snape is not a handsome man in the slightest, his dark and greasy hair framing his face like curtains, his eyes so cold and uncaring, his skin sallow and waxy. She wonders what he’d look like with facial hair—it probably would do him some good, hiding his weak chin. “What are you doing?” he asks, seemingly annoyed by her sitting in a bathtub.

“I just wanted to be alone,” she whispers, and for some reason, the simple question makes her want to cry. “Professor, could I ask you something?”

Snape looks uncomfortable about it, slightly disgusted. “Why me?”

“Because I know you’ll tell me the truth.”

He lets out a tired sigh. “Go on, then.” Snape leans up against the sink, waiting very impatiently for her to continue.

Darcy rests her arms against the edge of the bath, placing her chin atop her hands. She looks up at him, frowning. “Do you think I belong at Hogwarts?”

“More so than you belong here.” Snape looks around the bathroom, silently judging his surroundings. Darcy can’t imagine he’s very happy that headquarters belongs to Sirius.

“I just...I need to know that I’m doing something with my life,” she begs quietly, and Snape gets to one knee beside the bathtub. Darcy blushes—the situation is far more intimate and personal than she thought it would be. “I need to know that I’m not giving everything up for nothing.”

“And what is it exactly that you’re giving up?” Snape raises his eyebrows, his mouth twisting into a mocking grin. “A life with your werewolf, and your felon godfather?”

Tears prickle painfully at the corners of her eyes, but not because of Snape’s words. It’s nothing new, and it’s not like he’s necessarily wrong. Darcy rubs furiously at her eyes, but she knows Snape has already seen the tears begin to fall. Blushing madly, Darcy lowers her hands from his face. “Why aren’t I enough for them?” she breathes. “Why doesn’t Remus want me?”

Snape doesn’t answer—either he doesn’t want to, or he doesn’t have an answer to give, Darcy isn’t sure. But he’s close enough that she’s able to lean in slowly and rest her head against his chest. He makes no move to hold her or comfort her, but he doesn’t pull away from her, either. Darcy cries softly against his chest, her tears staining the scratchy, black fabric of the shirt beneath his traveling cloak.

Everyone seems rather shocked and speechless when Snape leads Darcy back down to the kitchen, his hand upon the nape of her neck, her eyes puffy and swollen from crying. Sirius narrows his eyes at Snape, as if it were his fault that Darcy had been crying, but Snape ignores Sirius completely. Lupin rubs his scruffy chin, watching Darcy carefully. Snape extracts a newspaper from inside his cloak, laying it in front of the empty seat at the table meant to be Darcy’s. She grips the back of the chair and as Snape makes to leave, he touches her neck again.

“Walk me to the door,” he orders, and Darcy obeys.

She turns and trails after him, all the way to the front door, where she stands in front of him, looking down at her feet.

“Will I see you the first of September?”

Darcy nods sheepishly. “Yes, sir.”

“For my sake as well as yours,” Snape sighs, exasperated, “let’s _try_ to make it through the year without an incident.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not mocking you.” Snape shifts on his feet, tapping the door with his wand to allow the multiple locks to open. “Goodnight, Darcy.”

Darcy nods again, wrapping her arms around herself. When the front door opens, a gust of warm, summer wind hits her hard. The fresh air feels overwhelmingly good, but it stops almost instantly as Snape closes the door behind him. The locks click shut again of their own accord, and Darcy is left standing alone in the entrance hall. 


	12. Chapter 12

“That place was fucking _amazing_. Check out all the stuff I bought.”

Gemma enters the kitchen empty-handed, seating herself across from Darcy. Lupin follows her in, looking disheveled, windswept, irritable, and carrying not only the food Darcy had asked Gemma to pick up for Harry’s preferred dinner, but five other bags full of jewelry, flowers, books, and all sorts of things. He drops all of the bags on the table, scowling at Gemma, who begins to sort through them.

“I’ve never even held Muggle money before. If he hadn’t been there with me, I would never have figured it out,” Gemma continues, pulling out all of her new things and laying them on the table. Darcy closes the newspaper she’s been reading, setting it aside to look at everything. “I may have went a little overboard, but I mean—that place is my new favorite place.”

When Darcy had told Gemma of the market she and Lupin used to go to, Gemma had shown far more interest than Darcy thought. She had meant to take Gemma herself, but Mrs. Weasley had protested vehemently against Darcy leaving the house. Thankfully, Lupin was able to get Gemma there and back safely.

“Here, these are for you—” Gemma forces a bouquet of multicolored lilies, yellow and white and pink and all fragrant and beautiful. “And these, and these—oh, and this—” She continues to load Darcy’s arms with gifts—a silver necklace with a scarlet pendant, a set of three skinny gold rings that happen to fit her fingers perfectly, a white sundress, a pair of sunglasses, three new books, a box of candied nuts, and a black peacoat for winter. “There was even a stall where I could get piercings and—check this out—I got another one.” She tucks her hair behind her ears and Darcy sees yet another ear piercing on her inner ear. The skin is bright red and still slightly swollen. Darcy raises her eyebrows and smiles.

“This is...Gemma, thank you,” Darcy breathes incredulously over the pile of gifts in her arms. “You didn’t have to—I mean, you did get everything on the list I gave you, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did,” Gemma scoffs, beaming.

“This must have cost you a fortune.” Darcy peeks into the other bags to see still more things Gemma had bought for herself. “My money is in my top drawer. Take some.”

“No, please! It’s fine.” Gemma smiles at Darcy still, wriggling her eyebrows. “I also may have gotten a leg of lamb that looked so good, and Lupin said you can cook a mean leg of lamb, so I thought the three of us and Harry could have a special dinner before you guys go back to Hogwarts, and—”

“Gemma, I really appreciate your enthusiasm and I am so, one hundred percent behind your special dinner idea, but maybe you could take it down like, five notches?” Darcy laughs, and Gemma holds her hands up in surrender, laughing along with her. Placing all of her gifts back in a bag, Darcy glances at Lupin, running his hands through his hair. “Why don’t you go put these things away and I’ll start dinner? You can show me later.”

“All right, all right.” She pulls her wand out and waves it in the air excitedly so her bags follow her out of the room. Over her shoulder, Gemma calls out, “I got this really cute dress that I know is going to look great on me. Wait until you see.”

Darcy begins to unpack the food Gemma had brought back, clearing her throat. Lupin lifts his head, watching her. “She’s a nightmare,” Lupin chuckles, looking very weary. The signs of his transformation are still prominent; there are still shadows beneath his eyes, his face lacking color.

“Funnily enough, she says the same about you,” Darcy replies, frowning. “I’m sorry. I would have gone if I could have. You should be resting.”

“Ah,” Lupin sighs, rubbing his face. “I got my exercise in at least, carrying all those damn bags. And at least I know I’ll have a good meal tonight.” He flashes her a tired smile.

“You’re flattering me.” She blushes, turning away quickly to hide her face from him, continuing to pull out the ingredients, just to make sure Gemma didn’t miss anything. When she finally turns around again, she notices his face is hard and his jaw clenched. “Are you all right?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Clearly it’s something. You can say it now while we’re alone, or you can wait for Gemma to come back.”

“Now, then,” he says quickly, straightening up in his chair. Lupin clears his throat. “You opened the door for Severus.”

“I did.”

This isn’t the answer he’s clearly looking for. Lupin gives her a hard stare, grinding his teeth. “Why?”

A surge of anger overcomes her and she turns away again, not wanting Lupin to see her cry. Stop crying, you stupid girl. Crying is all you’re good at these days. “Because Professor Snape didn’t walk out on me.” It’s after she says this a little too harshly does she realize she hasn’t gotten the chance to talk to him about it since she’d made a fool of herself at breakfast that one morning, begging to be his again. Darcy whirls around in a rage, uncaring about her tears now. “You hurt me. You left me. You made me feel like I wasn’t good enough for you.”

Lupin sighs, holding his hands to his face for a moment. He thinks hard, lowering his hands and holding them on the table. “You’re far too good for me,” he whispers. “You always have been.”

Darcy shakes her head. “Don’t do that. Don’t just say things to make me feel better. I needed you, and you left when I needed you the most.”

“I’m sorry.” He inhales deeply. “I’ve ruined you. I’ve almost killed—bitten—you, have made you a laughing stock—I...Darcy, what do you want me to say?”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she replies, scoffing slightly. “I don’t want you to feel that you have to say anything. I just want you to know how I feel—how you hurt me.”

“You think this is easy for me?” Lupin hisses. Anger flashes in his eyes, but Darcy doesn’t falter. “You think it was nothing to me to leave you that night? You think I didn’t wake up every morning, alone in my bed, craving your presence?”

“You have no right to say those things to me,” Darcy counters, wiping angrily at her wet cheeks. “You don’t get to hurt me and claim those things. You don’t get to hurt me and be angry with me about Gavin—about Snape.”

“I—”

“No,” she snaps. “Let me say what I have to say.” Darcy chooses her words carefully. “I thought you knew what you were getting into. I thought you knew how much Harry meant to me. I thought you knew that I would always choose him.” She turns away again, fussing with the food, not wanting to look at him, not wanting to see a reaction. All Darcy knows is that she wants him to know how she feels—she wants Lupin to hurt like she hurts. The words come out of her before she even has time to consider them. “I wish we’d never met.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do.” Darcy closes her eyes as his chair scrapes against the ground. For a moment, she thinks he’s going to leave, but his footsteps grow closer to her. “It would have been better if we never met at all.”

“Don’t say that.” Lupin’s fingers curl around her arm and Darcy’s breath hitches. She turns around quickly, jerking her arm away from him. He lowers his voice taking another step closer. “Darcy, when you came to me that night after all I’d said and done and still...wanted me, I—” The backs of Lupin’s fingers brush against her cheek, pushing the hair from her face. “Please don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

She doesn’t. If she’s being honest, meeting him again was one of the best things that has ever happened to her, but admitting it will make her feel weak. But with Lupin standing so close to her, close enough to kiss him, Darcy’s head grows slightly fuzzy and he doesn’t pull away when she pushes herself on her tiptoes and gets closer. “I hate you,” she whispers, more to herself than to Lupin, her stomach churning when he tucks some of her hair behind her ear.

“No, you don’t,” he breathes. His breath is hot on her lips, and Darcy closes her eyes, allowing him to slowly close the distance between them, waiting to feel his lips on hers after weeks of dreaming—

“What’s going on here?”

Darcy’s eyes flutter open and Lupin’s hand falls away from her face. His cheeks are slightly pink as he jumps away from her, crashing into the kitchen counter and looking sheepishly at Mrs. Weasley. Darcy rubs the back of her neck, her entire face painfully red. Mrs. Weasley narrows her eyes at the both of them, looking as unhappy as possible. “Nothing,” Darcy lies, giving Lupin a sideways look. “He was going to help me with dinner.”

“Mrs. Weasley, leave them alone,” comes Gemma’s voice, floating through the kitchen. She appears in the doorway, clad in her new dress, her hair up in a ponytail to show off her irritated ear. “Darcy’s a big girl now.”

“She’s nineteen,” Mrs. Weasley answers sharply, giving both Gemma and Lupin a very cold look. “Hardly more than a child.”

The kitchen grows very quiet for a moment. Lupin shifts on his feet uncomfortable, avoiding Mrs. Weasley’s stare. “Maybe I should...go,” he murmurs, giving Darcy a forced and very weak smile, slipping past her and out of the kitchen.

Gemma helps Darcy with dinner that night—though perhaps help is a strong word. For the most part, Gemma sits at the kitchen table with her feet up as she provides what she calls ‘moral support’, unable to cook anything without magic. It’s exasperating, considering Darcy is cooking for everyone at headquarters instead of just she and Lupin or she and Harry, like usual. She does prove useful, however, when Kreacher comes lurking in the kitchen, hovering and watching as Darcy cooks and chops and stirs and nervously glances his way every so often. Gemma orders him to get out, and receives a very stern scolding from Hermione, who had happened to overhear Gemma call Kreacher something Hermione shouldn’t have overheard in the first place.

“Don’t talk to me about your S.P.E.W. shit, Hermione,” Gemma says coldly. Hermione purses her lips, and for a moment Darcy thinks she’s about to cry. “Kreacher hates you. He doesn’t deserve what you’re trying to do. You know what he calls you, doesn’t he?”

“He’s just been stuck in this house for too long without company,” Hermione argues, and Darcy busies herself with the sauce bubbling on the stove, hoping to avoid being dragged into the argument. “You really should be much nicer to Kreacher. Everyone should—maybe he’d be a bit more pleasant if we treated him like an equal—”

“But Kreacher’s not our equal,” Gemma counters, drumming her fingers on the table. “He’s vile and disgusting and skulks around the house calling us all blood-traitors, half-breeds, scum, vermin, and _Mudbloods_.”

“People like _you_ are the reason we need things like S.P.E.W.,” Hermione frowns, looking furious. “He’s a slave—”

“Hermione, will you shut up?” Gemma groans, throwing her head back dramatically, leaning her chair back on two legs. “I don’t hate house-elves, I just hate Kreacher. I’m quite pleasant to my own house-elf—”

“You have a house-elf?” Hermione shrieks, horrified.

“Of course I have a house-elf,” Gemma scoffs. “How would we get anything done around the—hey! Stop it!”

Hermione punches Gemma’s arm, nearly knocking Gemma from her seat. “You keep a slave!”

“I don’t keep a damn slave.” Gemma shakes her head. “No one even wants to join S.P.E.W. anyway. Why don’t you make up some stupid charity for a better cause than for freaks like Kreacher?”

“Darcy wanted to join,” Hermione says, albeit weakly. “And Professor Lupin—”

“Lupin’s only a member because Darcy bought him a badge and told him to be nice about it.”

Darcy sighs, returning to chopping vegetables as Hermione’s cheeks turn pink. “Well, I thought him, of all people, would be a bit more sympathetic—”

Gemma threatens to Stun Hermione if she doesn’t get out, and to Darcy’s surprise, Hermione storms off, red-faced. Darcy turns to Gemma as Hermione’s footsteps recede up the stairs. “Don’t you dare Stun her, Gemma.”

“I wouldn’t have actually done it,” Gemma snarls, picking up the discarded newspaper on the table and disappearing behind it. “She can be such a fucking—”

“If you have nothing nice to say, don’t say it at all.”

Gemma doesn’t answer, but Darcy knows that she’s likely making a face behind the front page of the _Daily Prophet_. It isn’t more than an hour before Lupin comes into the kitchen again, shutting the door loudly and pointing an accusing finger at Gemma. She lowers the paper, giving him a stony, blank, apathetic look.

“Not only am I being scolded by Mrs. Weasley for every time I so much as glance in Darcy’s direction,” he begins, and Darcy flushes. “Hermione’s been following me around for half an hour about house-elf rights, and don’t pretend it isn’t something to do with you.”

“Do I look like the kind of person who would support that stupid spew shit?” Gemma says, rolling her eyes. “Why would either of those things be my fault?”

“Don’t lie,” Lupin growls. “Don’t act like you haven’t been rallying everyone in this damn house against me—”

Gemma snorts, removing her feet from the table to slam them on the hard floor. “If everyone in this house hates you, it isn’t because of me. It’s because of you, and what you did to Darcy.”

“If you must fight, can you please not do it in here?” Darcy hisses, tired of it all. Gemma and Lupin look at her apologetically and Darcy thinks they’ll drop it and be polite to each other again, but the two of them only walk themselves out of the kitchen, bickering loudly the entire way.

Part of her is privately very thrilled to return to Hogwarts—a feeling that has only come to bloom over the past couple of days. Being in such close confines, everyone has started to snap a little quicker, at each other’s throats for stupid things. Gemma and Lupin are the worst, and have been for some time—arguing over nothing, out of nowhere, seemingly unimportant things thrown in each other’s faces. Darcy doesn’t want to take sides, but she thinks if Gemma just shut up sometimes, it wouldn’t be a problem. Not only is it incredibly annoying to hear them fight, but it’s humiliating, considering Gemma uses her to pick fights in the first place, bringing up Gavin or Snape or Ludo Bagman or Darcy herself to hit Lupin where it hurts.

As dinner finishes, Harry joins her to help set the table. “Thanks for doing this,” he tells her quietly, setting plates around the table, the clinking of silverware nearly drowning him out. “You didn’t have to—I was only—”

“Harry, I’ll make you dinner for you whenever you want,” she laughs. “All you have to do is ask.”

“Right.” Harry’s quiet for a few more minutes, and when he shuts the door, Darcy knows she’s about to have an unpleasant conversation. “I think Sirius is mad at me.”

“Why would he be mad at you?” Darcy places the roast on the table, resigning to magic in order to slice it. She’s made sure to cook it at least medium rare in order to avoid accusations that she eats her meat raw again. She seats herself at the table and Harry sits next to her, looking down into his lap. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “I thought maybe he—after my hearing, when it was made official that I’ll be going back to Hogwarts, he...I think he...I don’t know.”

“Harry, listen to me,” Darcy says, combing his hair out of his eyes. Harry allows her to without complaint. “Sirius knows that you belong at Hogwarts. It’s a hard time for him right now, but you mustn’t allow him to make you feel guilty. He won’t be alone here, and next summer, we can come back. Maybe for Christmas and Easter holidays, too.”

“I’d like that.” Harry lifts his eyes to meet hers. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Don’t you want to stay?”

Darcy hesitates, chewing on her bottom lip. “I’ll be able to come back on my own time,” she answers. She feels guilty not being completely honest with Harry, but can’t bring herself to tell the absolute truth, not wanting to make him feel any worse. “Sirius knows that you’re the most important thing right now. I know it seems that he’s angry, but he’s just...lonely. He’s waited a long time for this, but once this is all over, the three of us will be a real family.”

“How long?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know,” she confesses. “You just have to wait a little bit longer, all right? It’s not your fault that Sirius is upset, and you can’t blame yourself. We still have some time left before we go back to Hogwarts, and we’ll just need to use it wisely.” Darcy can see that Harry isn’t entirely convinced. “Go fetch everyone for dinner, okay?”

Harry nods and slides out of his chair. When he leaves the kitchen, Darcy runs a hand through her hair, her heart racing. _Why does everything have to be so fucking hard?_

* * *

The days slip by, and Darcy can’t help but notice that Sirius becomes more bitter with each passing day. Everyone seems near or far past their breaking point by the last week of August. Sirius spends most of his days cooped up in his bedroom or with Buckbeak in his mother’s old bedroom (which had been a shock when Lupin had told her there was a hippogriff living in the house). Darcy tries to convince him to let her in once, asks if he’d like to play chess or read or look at her photographs, but he doesn’t seem to want to do any of those. One day, before she slinks away from his door, she calls, “I love you”, but doesn’t receive an answer back. Heartbroken and crying, her legs automatically take her to the drawing room, where Lupin is reading by the fire.

“What’s wrong?” he asks breathlessly, closing his book upon seeing the state she’s in.

“Will you read to me?”

Lupin nods warily as she sits beside him. He opens the book again very slowly and starts at the beginning, and they spend hours reading as people come and go without bothering them.

Darcy’s also very glad they haven’t spoken of their almost-kiss. She doesn’t think her heart can take much more hurt before shattering completely. Ever gentle and considerate, Lupin doesn’t pry any further about it, for which Darcy is grateful. She thinks she’d feel quite stupid for admitting she’d cried over not hearing _I love you_ back from her godfather.

However, upon seeing Darcy and Lupin spending more time alone together, Sirius does take this opportunity to say some things. He corners them in the kitchen one morning as they shuffle around making coffee and toast before Lupin leaves for an assignment. “If you’re going to be coming back on weekends or whenever you can, I want there to be ground rules,” Sirius tells them, his voice a low growl. Darcy and Lupin exchange confused looks before turning back to Sirius. “I want doors open when you’re in a room together, you’re not to share a bed, and I want the both of you fully clothed at all times.”

Darcy blushes. “Go away, Sirius. I don’t know what you’re so worried about anyway. I‘m not his anymore.” She pushes past her godfather, humiliated, and hides in her bedroom the rest of the day.

Come August 31st, Darcy finds that she’s looking forward to escaping the confines of Grimmauld Place. She wants to sleep by herself again, wants to be alone for just five minutes without someone bothering her. She needs to get away from Lupin in order to clear her head. Only a few days ago, Darcy had woken in the dead of night (alone, thankfully, with Gemma at work) in a cold sweat—not due to a nightmare, but an uncomfortably vivid dream that had caused her to grow damp between the legs. Her chest had been heaving, her core aching horribly, and she hadn’t been able to get the images out of her mind. Images of Lupin hovering above her, his fingers roaming her body, his head between her thighs. She’d wondered briefly if she’d been making any noises; with Lupin’s bedroom just on the other side of the hall, she’d been sure her voice would have likely carried, and the last thing she wanted was for Lupin to think she’d been touching herself in her godfather’s house.

Embarrassing her further, Mrs. Weasley and Gemma have decided to celebrate Darcy’s birthday early, inviting near everyone in the Order to celebrate with them. Emily and Tonks are to be joining them for dinner, along with Kingsley and Mad-Eye Moody and Mundungus Fletcher, and even Snape. While Darcy finds the gesture very sweet, she’s much more interested in going to Diagon Alley with Mrs. Weasley. She nearly begs on bended knee, but Mrs. Weasley will hear none of it, despite Lupin taking her side and insisting Darcy will be fine.

“I said ‘no’, and that’s my final word. Anything you need, you tell me and I’ll get it for you.”

Darcy scowls, knowing she could very well just go there herself, able to Apparate, but she doesn’t want to risk upsetting Dumbledore again just a day before term. Before she can argue any further, Mrs. Weasley leaves the kitchen to check on the rest of her children, Harry, and Hermione, and she returns with an unexpected surprise.

“Ron’s been made a prefect!”

Smiling and congratulating Mrs. Weasley, Darcy can’t help but to feel a pang of _something_ in her chest. She had thought, all along, that Harry would be sure to get it. But she was never a prefect, and had never desired to be a prefect, nor does she regret _not_ being a prefect. When Mrs. Weasley tells them Hermione’s been made a prefect, as well, Darcy isn’t as surprised. Shortly after Mrs. Weasley departs for Diagon Alley, alone, Hermione comes into the kitchen to find Darcy, Gemma, and Lupin all sitting quietly around the table, sharing different sections of the _Daily Prophet_.

“Hey, prefect,” Gemma grins, looking over the top of her paper. “Didn’t I tell you that you were going to be just like me?”

“Hopefully, Hermione will take after Remus. I’m sure _he_ never used his authority to confiscate smuggled alcohol, only to drink it all later,” Darcy jokes. “Congratulations, Hermione. Don’t listen to Gemma.”

“Right, er—thank you. Darcy, do you think I could use Max to send my parents a letter? I was going to ask Harry, but…”

“But what?” Darcy asks, narrowing his eyes. Hermione looks at her feet. Rubbing her temples wearily, Darcy sighs. “Is he upset he wasn’t made a prefect?”

Hermione nods slightly, as if she shouldn’t be confirming it.

“Send him to me when you get Max, would you?”

She nods again slightly more enthusiastically and leaves the three of them in peace again. Gemma is the first one to break the silence, and she’s looking directly at Darcy with a small smirk on her face. “You didn’t think Dumbledore would really make Harry a prefect, did you?”

Darcy shrugs, giving Gemma an annoyed look and returning to her paper. “I thought—I don’t know. After everything that’s happened…maybe it would have been good for him.”

“He didn’t make James a prefect,” Lupin adds quickly. “And he didn’t make you one. There’s nothing shameful about not being a prefect.”

“I know there’s not,” Darcy retorts. “But Dumbledore made Ron and Hermione prefects. He could have chosen anyone else in Gryffindor, but he chose Harry’s best friends. That seems like a slight to me.”

“I’m sure he did it for the same reason he made me one,” Lupin continues, closing his newspaper. “The same reason he made Gemma one. He probably just wants them to keep an eye on Harry. Stop him from doing anything…”

“Stupid,” Gemma supplies with a smile.

Lupin shifts uncomfortably in his seat, but doesn’t correct her. “Maybe Ron and Hermione will succeed where Gemma and I have failed as far as our friends are concerned.”

Gemma snorts. “I’ll drink to that. Failed miserably, didn’t we? If I were a better friend and prefect, I wouldn’t have let you jump down into that damned Chamber of Secrets.”

Darcy shudders at the thought. “Don’t remind me.” But when she thinks about it, she does think both Gemma and Lupin have put up a good argument. “Maybe you’re right, though.”

When Harry comes into the kitchen, his hands are deep in his pockets, and he throws himself into the chair beside Gemma, across the table from Darcy and Lupin. The four of them are quiet for a while, unsure of how to begin the conversation, and after a few minutes, Lupin insists he and Gemma excuse themselves.

“Harry, why are you upset?” Darcy asks when they’re alone. “You know I wasn’t made prefect, either.”

Harry seems very uncomfortable talking about it, so Darcy gives him a minute to sort out his thoughts. “Darcy?”

She hums in response.

“Does it make me…” Harry trails off awkwardly. “I mean...I’ve done more than Ron has.”

“Yes,” she agrees, trying to keep her tone as kind and soft as possible. “I can’t argue with that. You’ve done more than probably anyone in your class. Maybe more than anyone in the whole school.” Darcy gives him a small smile. “Do you think you deserved the badge more than Ron? Be honest with me, Harry.”

Harry gives her a little nod, and then a shrug.

“Just because Ron was made prefect doesn’t mean that he’s better than you. I wasn’t a prefect—do you think Delilah was better than me because she got the badge instead of me?”

“No,” he admits grudgingly.

“Do you think Remus was better than dad because he got the badge?”

Harry perks up. “Dad wasn’t a prefect?”

“No,” Darcy chuckles. “Remus was. Go ask him.”

“Oh.” Harry gets to his feet, flashing Darcy a goofy smile. “I think I will.”

* * *

The camera flashes and Darcy reaches out to grab the drying photograph from Lupin’s hand. She shakes it and shakes it and shakes it, only to find Gemma had blinked.

“You idiot!” Emily cackles. “How hard is it to keep your eyes open?”

“My hair looks really good though,” Gemma muses, running a hand through it. She takes the picture from Darcy’s hands, tossing it on the table. “If it weren’t a Muggle photograph, it wouldn’t even matter. Take another.”

The three of them assume the same positions, smiling wide for the camera. Lupin takes a much better picture this time, to go with the others Darcy’s already captured. When Mr. Weasley has asked what she’s going to do with all of her new pictures, Darcy had told him, “I’ll have to buy a new album.” Gemma had only beamed at her, making her anxious.

The party does a wonderful job at lifting everyone’s spirits. Gemma had requested Darcy wear the new dress she’d bought, and Sirius had been speechless upon seeing her in it. “Some days, you remind me so much of your mother,” he’d told her, and Darcy smiled. He’d kissed her brow, told her he loved her for the first time in what had seemed like forever, and Darcy’s heart had soared.

Since then, Darcy’s received far more compliments than she likes. Mr. Weasley had kissed her cheek, wished her a happy early birthday, and complimented her dress; Kingsley had told her how pretty she looked; Mad-Eye Moody (someone she’s still getting used to) had told her she was a pretty young woman; and Harry had smiled at her and called her beautiful. In better spirits, it seems, Harry smiles more often and, though Lupin hadn’t mentioned if they’d spoken or not, she feels a surge of affection for the both of them for caring so deeply about each other despite everything.

Not only celebrating Darcy’s birthday early, but Hermione and Ron’s achievements, the mood is light. Mrs. Weasley seems to be happier than she’s been all summer, and Ron is thrilled to find that she’s gotten him a new broom, just like he’d asked. Food lines the long trestle table, several empty butterbeer bottles litter the counters and tabletop; Darcy, Gemma, Emily, and Tonks sneak drinks from Gemma’s flask, giggling like children, as if going to be caught and given detentions. Emily is quick to relay the horror stories of their school years to Tonks, who laughs at some and gives unbelieving looks at others. Loudly, Emily recounts the story of the night Darcy and Oliver had been caught in a broom closet by Lupin. Gemma tries to shut her up, and Lupin takes the flask himself, drinking deeply and skulking off.

Darcy considers going after him, and finally gets her chance when Mr. Weasley begins to make a toast to Ron and Hermione. With Emily in a deep and whispered conversation with Bill and completely distracted, Gemma urges her to go, and Darcy slips out of the kitchen after Lupin. He hasn’t gone far, and Darcy tracks him to a room she hasn’t been in before—a dusty library where the fire is already flickering merrily. The books on the shelves don’t seem to have been touched in years, the furniture old and musty looking. Lupin’s back is to her, facing an old wireless radio in the corner. He taps it a few times with his wand and, after the fourth time, it works.

“What are you doing in here?” Darcy asks, taking a step closer.

Lupin jumps, turning quickly to face her. His cheeks are flushed, slightly drunk from the wine and firewhisky he’s been drinking, but Darcy doesn’t mind. She feels heavy on her feet, and her pulse pounds in her ears—though she isn’t sure that’s due to the alcohol. She’s sure being in close proximity with Lupin has something to do with it. He looks her up and down before tearing his gaze away, looking into the fire. “You look very pretty tonight.”

“You don’t think I’m pretty every night?”

This makes him smile weakly. “I mean you look _especially_ pretty tonight.” He digs his hands in his pockets, looking up at her again. “I got you something for your birthday. Would you like it now? Or I can give it to you next weekend?”

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Darcy smiles.

“Well, I wanted to,” Lupin continues. “Will you...will you wait here while I go and get it?”

“Oh—I—sure.”

Lupin nods, making to leave the room. Suddenly he stops, and he looks at Darcy with a furrowed brow. “Do you hear that?” he asks, and Darcy shrugs, only hearing the fire spit and hiss. “Someone’s crying.”

Darcy moves quickly; Lupin puts a hand on the small of her back, guiding her along as they locate the source of the crying. It’s coming from the drawing room, where Mrs. Weasley is sobbing into her hands, but Darcy can’t see what. Lupin blocks the scene, and when Darcy tries to see over his shoulder, he turns quickly and grabs her hands, surprising her. “Go,” he whispers. “Go back to the library and I’ll—”

“What’s going on?” Darcy frowns, pulling her hands from Lupin’s and looking past him. “Mrs. Weasley—?”

Darcy screams in horror, waking Mrs. Black’s portrait and she can hear people begin to race from the kitchen to see what the commotion is about. She takes a step backwards, stumbling over Lupin’s feet, and he catches her in his arms as she buries her face in his chest, breathing heavily and crying. The image of Harry lying dead on the floor, his glasses pushed hard against his face, blood pooling around him—she’s only seen that image once before, and she’s never forgotten it. Darcy remembers when she had attempted to subdue a boggart, only to reveal her worst fear in front of Lupin. The boggart had transformed into the same thing that this boggart is now, a dead Harry. She doesn’t want to look at it, but part of her can’t help it—she glances sideways at the body on the ground that nearly makes her heart explode.

With one arm still wrapped tight around her, Lupin quickly banishes the boggart with ease, just as he had all those months ago—almost two years ago now. Darcy closes her eyes, his thumb caressing the bare skin of her arm as Mrs. Weasley begins to sob into his shoulder.

“Molly—please don’t…” He pats Mrs. Weasley’s shoulder awkwardly, and as Darcy moves to pull away from him, finds that his arm tightens around her to keep her from getting away. “It’s just a boggart…”

At the same time, Darcy flushes, for nearly the entire household has arrived. Gemma’s giving Darcy a sly smile from in between Emily and Tonks, and while Harry seems shaken by what he’d seen—after all, seeing herself dead on the floor would certainly make Darcy panic—he takes after Gemma, smiling weakly at Darcy, still being held against Lupin’s chest. Sirius frowns at the sight, looking deeply troubled.

“I’m just so worried,” Mrs. Weasley continues to sob. She babbles about things that have been at the back of Darcy’s mind during the summer, making her want to vomit. She watches Mrs. Weasley, horrified, imagining herself coming back to Grimmauld Place one weekend to find out someone had died. Fear grips Darcy’s heart with a cold, iron fist. “Who would take care of Ron and Ginny?”

“It won’t be like last time, Molly,” Lupin assures her. “We’re better prepared this time—”

“Looks like you’ve got things under control,” Mad-Eye says curtly, and Lupin gives him an exasperated look.

It takes about ten minutes for Lupin to calm Mrs. Weasley down, by which time Mr. Weasley is there to pry his wife off Lupin’s shoulders. Everyone disperses rather awkwardly, but Darcy stays with Lupin, his arm wrapped a bit looser around her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she rasps, wiping at her eyes.

Lupin smiles reassuringly at her, his hand falling to the small of her back. “Don’t be sorry, love,” he whispers, leading her from the drawing room. “Come sit down.”

She’s privately very relieved Lupin leads her back to the library. The music is still playing softly, the fire still lighting the room. Darcy damns the fire and the gas lamps for making him appear so handsome in the low, orange light. She wraps her arms around herself protectively, trembling slightly from what she’s just seen. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I just—that was the last thing I expected, and—”

“Darcy,” Lupin smiles, unfolding her arms from across her chest, “you don’t have to apologize to me. Stop that crying.”

Darcy tenses when Lupin reaches up, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. He seems frankly unabashed, but maybe it’s just the alcohol that’s made him bolder. She wishes it could have given her some courage, as well. “Why haven’t I been told anything?” she wonders outloud. “You and the Order have been keeping things from me.”

Lupin exhales loudly through his nose. “It is Dumbledore’s wish that he will tell you what he wants you to know. He fears I’ll tell you too much.”

“Oh.” Unsure if she’s about to be too bold, Darcy reaches out to brush the front of his shirt off. Thankfully, he doesn’t pull away. “I’m scared.” She looks up into his face to find his eyebrows knitted together.

“Of what?”

Of everything. “What if I—” She hesitates, and Lupin wipes her tears again, smiling down at her. “What if I come back one day and you’re not here?”

“I’m flattered to be the first person you imagine dying,” he laughs, but Darcy knows he’s only doing it to make her feel better. “Darcy, don’t worry about me.” Lupin seems to be doing it against his better judgement, but he takes her hands in his, squeezing them gently before placing a hand on the small of her back, pulling her to him.

Darcy can barely breathe being so close to him. She rests a hand on his shoulder, allowing him to lead her in a slow, swaying dance. “What are you doing?” she whispers, blushing.

“I’m dancing with you. Is that all right?” When she doesn’t answer, Lupin chuckles nervously. “I like it when you blush.”

This makes Darcy blush harder, and she thinks he knew it would. “I’m leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow.”

“I know.”

She nods, her heart pumping hard. “Will you be here on weekends? I’m going to come back during weekends.”

“Sometimes,” he answers, “when I’m not doing things for the Order.”

“Oh.”

“You make it seem like you’re leaving forever,” Lupin frowns.

“It feels like it sometimes,” she confesses, hating the way the firelight makes his jaw look so sharp, his eyes so gold. “I want to stay here. This is home to me, in a way nowhere has ever been. Not Privet Drive, not Hogwarts, not even…” Darcy gives him an apologetic look. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten all you’ve done for me. You gave me a home when I desperately needed one, and I’ll always be grateful.”

Lupin smiles sheepishly, releasing her hand to tuck some of her hair behind her ear. “I’m grateful to you, as well,” he breathes, continuing to smooth her hair back. “You loved me in a way no one ever has. I am...very grateful to have you in my life, Darcy.”

“Loved?” Darcy repeats, letting her hand fall from his shoulder to rest against his chest. “I still love you.”

He swallows hard, suddenly looking very nervous and ashamed. Lupin lowers his voice. “I never kissed you before I left, and I should have.”

“You can kiss me now,” she whispers, craning her neck up. Lupin brushes the tip of his nose against hers and butterflies erupt in her stomach.

“Just once,” he says, almost reluctantly. “Just once because I didn’t do it that night. Just once and then…”

“Just once,” Darcy agrees, nodding slowly. “To make up for that night.”

Lupin looks around again. “Not here.”

“Then where?”

He stops moving, taking both of her hands in his. Inhaling deeply, Lupin pulls her out of the library, extinguishing the fire as an afterthought before they close the door. Darcy thinks that Lupin will just lead her to the drawing room or another private room, but when he leads her up the stairs, nervousness overcomes her. The idea that—maybe—she could have one more night with him excites her and the mere thought of his fingertips touching everywhere on her body makes her shudder.

He leads her to the room he’s been staying in, a room that she hasn’t yet seen yet, but it’s just like her own. Lupin hasn’t decorated the walls or propped any pictures up on the dresser or nightstand. His bed is made sloppily, clothes hung over the chair in the corner, a few things discarded on the ground. Lupin closes the door behind them, and Darcy walks a few steps inside the room, wrapping her arms around herself.

Lupin lights the lamps around them, casting them both in warm, orange light again. “Would you like your birthday present?”

“Oh—um, all right.”

He smiles, moving to his dresser and pulling open the top drawer. He pulls out a small bag and brings it back to Darcy. “I’m sorry I didn’t wrap it,” Lupin says. “I saw it and I—well, just see what it is.”

Darcy pauses, smiling at his embarrassment. She reaches in the bag and pulls out a book, but upon further inspection, it’s a brand new photo album. Lupin takes the bag from her and tosses it to the side lazily, anxiously awaiting her reaction. Darcy looks up at him with wide eyes. “Thank you,” she rasps. “I love it. Thank you so much.”

“Here.” He takes the book from her, placing it on the nightstand.

Darcy clears her throat, looking around again.“You brought me to your room for one kiss?”

He blushes in earnest. “I didn’t think anyone would walk in on us in here.” His fingers whisper across her cheek and Darcy feel frozen on the spot. It takes her a minute to regain her senses, to realize that this is actually happening.

Darcy touches the hand against her face, nuzzling into his palm. Lupin sighs. “Why did you leave me if you still want to kiss me?”

Lupin rests his forehead against hers, tangling his fingers in her hair. “The timing was bad,” he whispers. “And for the record, I always want to kiss you.” His lips hover inches from her and Darcy exhales shakily. “You’re nervous.”

She nods slightly, closing her eyes.

“Why? It’s only me.”

“That’s exactly why I’m nervous.”

Lupin’s lips finally meet hers, but while Darcy expects the kiss to be bruising and desperate and sloppy after months, she’s pleasantly surprised that he kisses her softly, as if for the first time. It’s innocent and sweet, her favorite kind of kiss, loving and tender.

When he pulls away, he hesitates, as if meaning to kiss her again. Darcy’s breathing is very quick and shallow, and she can’t decide if she wants to do it again or not. She thinks of how much she’s wanted this—how much she’s ached for him, dreamt of him. _The timing was bad._ Maybe it’s true, but all Darcy knows now is that time in not on their side, and tonight may be the last night she has to do this. What are the chances she’ll never see him again? What are the chances he’ll get himself killed on some stupid mission for the Order?

Darcy turns around with her back facing him. She grabs hold of her hair and, without even having to say anything, Lupin’s fingers fumble with the zipper of her dress, slowly pulling it down to the small of her back. She turns back around and with shaking fingers, always shaking fingers, she undoes the buttons on his shirt, sliding it off him.

“Sirius won’t like it,” he says hoarsely. “He said there had to be rules.”

Darcy laughs breathily. “Since when have you ever been a man to follow the rules?” She drags her fingers down his scarred chest, so nervous she could throw up.

Lupin doesn’t answer, but swallows hard when Darcy slides her dress off, letting it pool at her feet. She lets him look at her, bare but for her underwear, for some reason not as self-conscious as she usually is. Having homemade meals nearly everyday, she’s regained a healthy amount of weight that she’d lost at Privet Drive.

“You didn’t sleep with Gavin?” he whispers.

“No,” she laughs. “We didn’t do anything.”

After a moment where the only sound is the thumping of her heart in her ears, Lupin kisses her again, this time harder. He lifts her with surprising ease and Darcy wraps her legs around his waist, allowing herself to be carried over to the bed, laid down with the utmost gentility. They finish undressing each other quickly, and Lupin leaves kisses down her throat, across her collarbones and breasts, making her squirm beneath him and soliciting stifled moans.

There are no whispered words of love or praise this time, but Darcy doesn’t need them. It’s enough to have him touch her again, to have him inside of her, panting against her skin. The bed groans and creaks beneath them with each thrust, and when Darcy opens her mouth again, Lupin claps a hand over it. Her cries die in his palm and he finishes not long afterwards, leaving them both breathing heavily.

Darcy, her legs shaking, gets out of his bed, grabbing her dress off the ground and beginning to slip into it. “You can—I mean, if you—” Lupin licks his lips. “Darcy, you can stay.”

“I shouldn’t.” Darcy sighs, pulling her underwear back on.

“This doesn’t have to be anything more than we make it,” he says, frowning.

She looks away from him, picking up the photo album off the table. _If I fall asleep beside him, I will never be able to leave this place_. “I want this to be more,” she admits. Darcy holds the book to her chest, blushing again. “Remus, I…” Laughing to herself, she shrugs. “I am so in love with you, and...I’m sorry—I can’t.”

But before she leaves, she sits beside him on the bed, kissing him.

“Last one,” she tells him, placing a hand to his cheek. “Goodnight, Remus. I’ll see you next weekend.”

Lupin looks sadly at her. “Have a good first day at Hogwarts, Darcy.”


	13. Chapter 13

“Everyone’s things better be packed in the next five minutes—”

“Mum, can I get some toast—?”

“Let me see that paper—”

“Up and over, Darcy, here’s your coffee—”

“Max is back—”

“Emily, dear, please close your mouth when you’re chewing—”

The kitchen of Grimmauld Place is cramped, crowded, loud, and very, very disorganized the morning of September the first. Mrs. Weasley tries to round everyone up, making sure trunks are packed, kids are dressed, stomachs are full—but it’s fruitless. Everyone shouts over each other, reaching across for food or drink, and Mad-Eye Moody attempts to growl orders to everyone, but no one listens to him. Mrs. Weasley stammers incoherently and exasperatedly when Max beats his wings hard to make his way to Darcy’s shoulder. From Darcy’s right, Lupin holds up a piece of sausage that Max takes eagerly and swallows whole.

“Do you have to do that at the breakfast table?” Emily snaps at him. “We’re trying to eat here.”

“So is he,” Lupin replies coolly, stroking Max’s feathers before returning to his own breakfast. “Hey—hey—hey! Darcy, control your owl!” Max hops down off Darcy’s shoulder and begins to peck at Lupin’s plate and in his cup, making Emily laugh.

“Max, stop it! You can share mine.”

The owl seems to know exactly what she’s saying, for he turns promptly to Darcy’s half-finished breakfast and shares her bacon, earning her a few disgusted looks. She doesn’t eat more than a few bites before Mrs. Weasley is herding everyone together, red-faced and exhausted. “Harry—where’s Harry?—oh, there you are—you and Darcy will be coming to the platform with Tonks and me—”

“Wait, what?” Darcy groans, her mouth full of food. After receiving a stern look, she wipes her mouth with a napkin and swallows her food before protesting. “I thought I would just Apparate a few minutes before—”

“No,” Mrs. Weasley retorts pointedly, giving Darcy a hard stare across the table as she spoons porridge into a bowl for Gemma. “Dumbledore wants you and Harry to stay together. So be ready to leave in five minutes—”

Gemma scrunches her nose. “Mrs. Weasley, could I just have some bacon instead?”

“No, you can have some porridge.”

Lupin scoops up the bacon Max had been pecking at and tosses it onto Gemma’s plate across the table from him. “Here,” he mutters. “I’m not going to eat these anymore.”

“Why?” Darcy asks, breaking a piece of bacon in half to share with her owl. “It’s only Max.”

This only ignites more chaos; everyone begins to trade breakfasts, bartering and exchanging loudly as Mrs. Weasley tries to shout them down, flashing angry looks at Gemma, who’s happily crunching on her Max-tainted bacon. When it becomes overwhelming, Mad-Eye bangs his wooden leg against the floor and it seems to reverberate inside Darcy’s head instead of just the kitchen. Everyone falls silent and Mrs. Weasley takes this opportunity to call for a last minute spot check, sending all of her children, Harry, Hermione, and Darcy back upstairs for the final time before leaving.

Having been woken so rudely and so early by Ron that morning, Darcy hasn’t had the chance to talk with Gemma—or even Emily—about what happened last night. So she’s very glad when both of her friends sneak out of the kitchen to follow her back up to the bedroom. Gemma closes the door after the three of them are alone, her face twisting into something wicked, hungry for gossip.

Darcy collapses on her bed, closing her eyes. If she is missing anything, she can always come back for it again. The knowledge even that she has somewhere to return during weekends makes her heart flutter. After what had happened with Lupin, Darcy hadn’t counted on having a place to stay on her off days, but this is better. Her own bedroom, a place with her godfather—who cares if Kreacher is lurking the halls? Who cares if Mrs. Black’s portrait screams and hollers sometimes? This is Darcy’s home now, despite her having to return to Hogwarts.

“Couldn’t help but notice that neither you or Lupin returned to the party last night,” Gemma chuckles, flopping on the bed at Darcy’s feet. “What happened?”

Darcy’s eyes snap open and she sits up straight on the bed. Gemma has a thin eyebrow cocked, waiting patiently for an answer, looking almost too innocent. Emily looks like she already knows what the answer is going to be, and in typical Emily fashion, doesn’t look very thrilled about it. “It’s none of your business,” she murmurs, but as soon as her cheeks burn painfully with a blush, Gemma cackles.

“I knew it! You fucked him!” Gemma hisses, and Emily makes a very disgruntled noise, reaching into her pocket. “Three Galleons, please, Em.”

“You bet on me?” Darcy asks sharply, narrowing her eyes at them both.

“I bet that you and Lupin would fuck again by the end of the summer,” Gemma explains, laughing at Darcy’s incredulous expression. “Emily thought you’d remember what he did to you and show some self-control, but...I mean, when have you _ever_ shown self-control around Lupin?”

“Excuse me,” Darcy snorts. “I’ll have you know that I waited until April to jump his bones at school.”

Gemma and Emily continue to look at her. Emily crosses her arms over her chest, likely annoyed for losing three Galleons on the first day of term.

“What?” Darcy snaps at them, wanting to escape the conversation. “We just slept together.”

“You _just_ slept together? If he kissed you on the mouth, you didn’t _just_ sleep together.” Gemma checks her watch quickly. “All right, we have about three minutes to talk about this before you have to go.”

Darcy runs a hand through her hair, sighing heavily “Why do we have to talk about it? Why do we have to constantly dissect _my_ sex life?” she growls. “I told you, we just slept together.”

“Why would you let him jerk you around like that after what he did?” Emily frowns. “You know he’s not going to commit, so you shouldn’t have let him—”

“Why is it always your first go-to thought that he’s taken advantage of me?” Darcy scoffs, making Emily’s cheeks turn pink. “I know very well he’s not going to commit while I’m at Hogwarts. Forgive me for not being able to say ‘no’ when the chance to fuck someone I love is staring me in the face.”

“I’m just saying, he shouldn’t have done that,” Emily continues, unabashed. “He knows that you love him, and it was wrong of him to give you false hope—”

“He wasn’t—it’s not like that,” Darcy protests, looking to Gemma pleadingly, hoping for some backup. “We both made it very clear that it was just the one time. And it’s not like he doesn’t love me—he told me he still does—”

“He shouldn’t have done that, either!” Emily knits her eyebrows together, looking very troubled. She looks around, as if concerned someone might be listening in. “Darcy, he left you. That was his decision, and he shouldn’t think that he can still kiss you and fuck you and touch you as he pleases just because you still love him. Let him deal with the consequences of his actions. The next time he wants to do any of those things and you deny him those simple pleasures, make sure he remembers that it’s his own fault he’s in that position!”

“Do you want me to hurt him or do you want us to get back together?” Darcy asks curiously, but she has to admit, Emily is putting up a decent argument.

“Why can’t I want both?” Emily shrugs, smiling weakly. “And you shouldn’t let him make you feel guilty about being with other boys. You should be putting yourself out there—”

“Yes, because I have so many men available to me.” Darcy laughs bitterly. “Besides, I _did_ try and put myself out there with Gavin, and look how that turned out. He thinks I up and left him now.”

Emily sighs dreamily, smiling at Darcy. “I wish I could have seen him...was he handsome, Darcy? Gemma said he was _so_ handsome—”

“He was,” Gemma says very matter-of-factly, nodding her head in agreement. “You wouldn’t believe, Emily. I didn’t think Darcy had it in her—”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, we all have different tastes, I suppose,” Gemma shrugs, and Darcy frowns. “I mean, remember Daniel? Oliver Wood...Lupin…” She ticks them off on her long fingers, making a point. “Gavin was definitely the best looking out of them all. And I heard talk that he came from a _very_ wealthy family.”

“Who told you that? And Remus is handsome, as well.” Darcy jumps to her feet, blushing furiously.

“Well, sure,” Gemma replies, laughing again. “In a haggard, rugged, sickly sort of way. Gavin was handsome in the rich, well-educated, spoiled kind of way. My parents would kill me if I married a Muggle, but if I could, he’d be my first choice.”

“Tonks thinks Lupin’s handsome,” Emily adds, and Darcy purses her lips. “She’s only told me a hundred times, like I haven’t heard it enough from you. I can’t believe that man gets as much attention as he does.”

“That’s a bit unfair,” Gemma frowns, getting to her feet and stretching. “The self-loathing gets a bit old sometimes, but it’s sort of endearing. Reminds me of you, Darcy. But you’re much cuter when you sulk.”

“What do you mean Tonks thinks Remus is handsome?” Darcy asks quickly. She tries to be casual about it, but the corners of Emily’s lips turn upwards upon seeing the pink tint to Darcy’s cheeks. “She’s not—I mean, she wouldn’t—”

“Looks like he’s not the only one to get jealous,” Gemma teases, and she shares a small smile with Emily. “Another woman finds him handsome and all of a sudden, she’s competition?”

Darcy blushes harder, unable to form a single coherent sentence or thought. “That’s not—I don’t—I’m not—he’s perfectly able to—she can do whatever she—”

“You sound like Lupin.” Gemma rolls her eyes, chuckling to herself. “ _She can do whatever she wants, but I don’t like that boy’s mouth so close to her_ —”

“EVERYONE DOWNSTAIRS, NOW!”

Darcy jumps, checking her watch. Mrs. Black’s shrieks seem quiet than usual today with all the noise of trunks being dragged down the stairs, the shouting of Mrs. Weasley, the howling laughter of Fred and George. Her heart racing frantically at the thought of finally returning to Hogwarts and escaping their current conversation, Darcy has to take a moment to catch her breath. Emily is the first out of the bedroom, hissing something at Fred and George as she passes them on the staircase.

Hesitating, Darcy turns to Gemma. “You don’t think…” She shifts uncomfortably on her feet, rubbing the back of her neck. “You don’t think Remus would—I mean—?”

This makes Gemma laugh. Hooking her arm around Darcy’s, the two of them make their way down the stairs. “If Lupin has even noticed Tonks, he’s shown no interest,” she whispers, though it’s hard to hear over the portrait of Mrs. Black. “How about we meet tomorrow for dinner at Hogsmeade, and you can tell me all about last night without worrying about Emily listening in?”

Darcy smiles. “I’d like that very much. See you, Gemma.”

As Darcy, Harry, Mrs. Weasley, and Tonks step out into the bright sunlight, Darcy’s nearly blinded. She feels as if she hasn’t had any fresh air or sunlight in a lifetime, but the feeling subsides when Sirius runs out of the house as the great, shaggy, black dog, the feeling subsides. He snaps at the air, jumping high in the air and making Darcy laugh. Mrs. Weasley isn’t happy about it, but Darcy is—she’s grateful that Sirius is able to escape the house, if only for a little while. Hopefully the excursion will lighten his spirits and mood, making him a little less angry and a little less bitter.

Darcy tries very, very hard to avoid judging Tonks on the way to the platform, but finds it very, very hard not to. She reminds herself a hundred times that Tonks has been nothing but kind to her, and just because she thinks Lupin is handsome doesn’t mean anything. Darcy can appreciate a good looking man without wanting to fuck him—maybe that’s just what Tonks was doing upon announcing to Emily he’s handsome. She’s just acknowledging that he’s handsome, not meaning to act on it.

But there’s no getting around it—Tonks is _pretty_. Not right now, of course, dressed up in old and stained clothing, looking like some old tramp with gray hair and a wrinkled face. But even just as herself, without using any of her powers—or ‘talents’ as she likes to call them—Darcy thinks Tonks is very pretty. While only a few years older than Darcy, Tonks’s face is lively and youthful, not weighed down by years of stress and anxiety or hardened like her own. Even her body is better—Darcy, with her long legs and gangly arms and boyish figure, surely can't compete with a woman who has actual tits, or a shape to her figure, or hair that can change length or texture or color whenever she wants, or a face that can become _anyone’s_.

_You’re being stupid_ , Darcy tells herself, scowling as she looks away from Tonks. _Gemma’s much prettier than Tonks, and Remus has never once shown a romantic interest in her_. The thought makes her feel a little bit better, but Darcy imagines all the time Lupin might be spending with Tonks while she’s away at Hogwarts and it makes her stomach churn violently. She makes a mental note to tell Gemma tomorrow to keep an eye on the situation, but then decides maybe she won’t, not wanting to come across as too jealous.

She had thought sleeping with him might relieve her of some worries, but all it’s done is make things worse. Darcy feels she should have known it wasn’t a good idea—or maybe she did know, but simply chose to ignore it. She’d thought maybe Lupin would touch her the way he used to when they were together, maybe he would kiss her the way he used to, but nothing was the same. The idea that maybe he only fucked her because he knew she would agree and because he wanted to get off makes Darcy nauseous.

_Stop being so stupid_ , she scolds herself again. _He didn’t use you. He loves you. He wanted to kiss you. He told you he always wants to kiss you. He wanted you to stay._

_And I was stupid enough to give in to him._ Darcy sighs. As much as she hates to admit it, she thinks Emily had been right. Lupin had been the one to leave. Lupin had put them in this situation. Why should Darcy continue to give in during these little moments? Why should she allow him a kiss or a fuck or a touch when it was his fault he wasn’t receiving them all the time anymore? She makes another mental note to talk to Gemma about this idea, as well. Not that Darcy doesn’t trust Emily, but Gemma is the first person she’d go to about relationship advice, not Emily.

“Nervous, Darcy?”

Darcy blinks, looking into Tonks’s face. It really is an ugly face today, but a good disguise. It takes Darcy a moment to actually process what Tonks has said to her. “About what?”

“About going back to Hogwarts, of course.” Tonks laughs brightly, her voice unchanged. “Bet it’s a real dream. Might be I’ll pretend to be you for a few days and while you take a vacation, I’ll enjoy the luxuries Hogwarts has to offer.”

She can’t help but to smile. “Might be I’ll take you up on that offer.”

Part of her is extremely nervous, however. With Gemma finished working at Hogwarts with Madam Pomfrey, and Lupin not going to be around for the full moon or just to visit his two days a week, Darcy fears that she’s going to be very lonely. She knows that Harry, Hermione, and Ron will always be around, but she remembers her fifth year and remembers the amount of work that had been assigned them for O.W.L.s and she can’t imagine they’ll have much free time to spend with her. Maybe Darcy could convince Hermione to study in her own room to keep her company with the promise of help with homework.

Mad-Eye Moody arrives with everyone’s luggage just a few minutes after Darcy and her entourage fall through the barrier to Platform 9¾. Darcy promptly lets Max out of his cage, allowing him to taste freedom for a short while, flying around the heads of giggling students, ruffling their hair with the tips of his wings. Soon, Mr. Weasley comes through the barrier with Ron and Hermione, and Lupin follows Fred, George, and Ginny through the barrier next.

Darcy waits awkwardly as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley hug their children first, sending them off to the steaming Hogwarts Express. The train is due to leave in exactly four minutes, and all the goodbyes and hugs and handshakes between everyone are quick and curt. Darcy watches them all, petting Sirius behind the ears as he pants beside her. She takes a good look at him, wishing he could be here as himself, wishing he could wrap his arms around her and kiss her and give her a proper goodbye.

_I’ll see him again Friday night_. But even so—even though it’s only five days away—Darcy can’t help but to worry. What if something happens between now and then? What if Sirius is caught on his way back to Grimmauld Place? The entire thing is reckless, and Darcy wants to scream at him to go home, to go back into hiding before someone takes him away from her again. Before saying her goodbye to Mr. Weasley, Darcy gets down on her knees and looks into Sirius’s black eyes, looking back at her. She wraps her arms around his neck and feels him lift a paw to place upon her shoulder. Unsure of what has come over her, Darcy buries her face in his muzzle, wanting to cry.

“I’ll be back Friday,” she murmurs, careful not to be overheard. “I love you.”

Sirius only whines softly and Darcy gets to her feet. As the train blows its whistle, giving a two minute warning to lingering students, Mr. Weasley pulls Darcy into a tight hug. “I’ll be in and out this weekend, but I’m sure I’ll see you then,” he promises, and this makes Darcy feel better.

“Please make sure Sirius is all right,” she whispers, glancing over her shoulder at Sirius, on his hind legs, his paws on Harry’s shoulders. “I’m worried about him.”

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Weasley smiles, putting a hand on her shoulder and giving her a gentle push towards the train. “Go on, Darcy. Good luck.”

Darcy looks around the platform, whistling loudly. From seemingly nowhere, Max soars silently through the air, landing on Darcy’s outstretched arm and clamping his talons around it. She makes for the Hogwarts Express, dragging her trunk behind her, the noise making her head throb, and someone calls her name and grabs her wrist.

“Not going to say goodbye?” Lupin’s giving her a toothy smile, and Darcy blushes. He releases his grip on her wrist, glancing anxiously at his watch. His smile falters, and his hand jumps to his hair, looking suddenly very embarrassed and uncomfortable. “I, er—”

“Do you think Tonks is pretty?”

Lupin blinks in surprise, furrowing his brow. “What?”

“Darcy, you’re going to miss the damn train!” Mr. Weasley calls, and she can hear Mad-Eye Moody growling something at her, likely rolling his eyes. “Hurry up!”

“Nevermind,” Darcy mutters, chewing her lower lip.

To her surprise, Lupin laughs. He leans in as if to kiss her, hesitating when Darcy flinches, bewildered. Lupin shakes his head, placing a chaste kiss on her forehead, and Darcy shivers. Chills run down her spine and she wishes he’d do it again—not just on her forehead, but on her nose and cheeks and lips and between her legs just like he used to. Goodbyes had always taken them so long last year, she remembers. Darcy would cling to him, kissing him again and again and again, never wanting to go back, never wanting to leave his bed.

Sirius barks behind her and Darcy jumps. Hurrying back to the train, Max hooting impatiently from her forearm, Darcy jumps on as the doors close behind her, blocking the platform from view. Most of the compartments are empty, and Darcy looks for Harry, wondering who he’s sitting with. Gemma had always been busy receiving instructions and patrolling the corridors after becoming a prefect, and surely Hermione and Ron are busy, as well.

The compartments are all packed, and Darcy receives many curious looks from students. Some laugh behind their hands, others smile and wave, some scowl or sneer at her. She doesn’t find any sign of Harry, but continues down to the far end of the train, where there is one single compartment empty. Darcy accepts defeat, shutting herself in side and shoving her trunk above her seat.

It’s strange, traveling alone. Even when she was just a first year, not even Sorted yet, Darcy had sat with others on the Hogwarts Express. She’d always sat with Emily, at least—sometimes Carla and sometimes Gemma. Harry and Ron had sat with them during their first year. Now it just feels lonely and slightly humiliating, sitting by herself with no company save her owl.

Darcy does everything she can to pass the time—she paints her fingernails with a bright red polish Emily had gotten for her early birthday present; reads the sections of the _Daily Prophet_ she hadn’t gotten to during breakfast; reads a few chapters of a book Mr. Weasley had gotten her; looks through her photo album for what must be the thousandth time; eats the lunch Mrs. Weasley had packed for her far too early into the journey; and finally, she decides there’s nothing left to do but sleep.

She stretches out on the cushioned bench, and within seconds, she’s asleep.

Max is the one to wake her up when they arrive at Hogwarts. The night is dark and cloudy, lacking much light, and Darcy can hardly see Hogwarts in the distance through the damp window. She rubs her eyes and pulls her trunk down, apologizing to Max before forcing him into his cage. Throwing a pair of her robes on over her clothes, Darcy drags her things off the train, trying to see over the heads of the students on the platform. She looks for a sign of Harry or Ron, who are typically very easy to pick out of a crowd. Ron she finds easily enough, helping usher students in a line towards the carriages with Hermione at his side. She still can’t find Harry, but something else seems off before she can really start to worry. Hagrid isn’t anywhere to be found, and he’s the easiest person in the world to find.

It seems things only get stranger. Darcy stops in her tracks when she sees Snape standing near the carriages, waiting very impatiently. When his eyes find hers in the crowd, he beckons her closer. Upon closer inspection, Darcy sees that a carriage has been set off to the side, the thestral snorting in the cold wind and ready to get moving.

“There are things we need to discuss before we arrive at the castle,” Snape tells her, offering her a hand up into the carriage. Darcy accepts his help reluctantly, casting him a wary look before climbing inside. Snape passes Darcy her trunk and Max’s cage follows before he himself clambers in, closing the flimsy door with a snap. The carriage lurches as the thestral begins to make its way up to the castle alongside the students’ carriages.

Darcy and Snape look at each other for a moment. She’s sure that she’s about to get her usual lecture— _shut up and don’t talk back, do whatever I say, don’t almost die this year_. So it comes as a shock when she does hear what Professor Snape has to say.

“Yesterday, the Ministry of Magic passed what they are calling Educational Decree Number Twenty-Two.”

She sits back in her seat, draping her left leg over her right. “Twenty-two?” Darcy asks. “What are the other ones?”

Snape ignores her. He speaks quickly as they make their way towards the castle. “Educational Decree Number Twenty-Two allows the Ministry of Magic to appoint a teacher if the Headmaster is unable to find a candidate.”

Darcy is quiet for a moment, digesting this information. “And Professor Dumbledore was unable to find a candidate to fill the Defense position, wasn’t he?” When Snape nods, Darcy leans forward, “So who is it?”

“I do not know her personally, but by reputation for the most part,” Snape replies smoothly. “However, suffice it to say that Dolores Umbridge is not someone the Headmaster would have chosen. Do you understand why this is troubling?”

She thinks again for a moment, grinding her jaw and looking into Snape’s cold eyes. “She’s a spy,” Darcy says quietly. “The Ministry wants her to spy on Professor Dumbledore.”

Snape nods slowly again. “Do you understand what this means for _you_?”

“It means I must tread carefully.”

“Yes,” he says. “It means you must tread _very_ carefully. She will not only be watching the Headmaster closely. The Ministry will want to know what you are up to, as well. They will want to know _why_ you are at Hogwarts, and they will want to see what story you’re telling in regards to the current...state of thinhales.”

“They want to know if I’m telling people Voldemort is back.”

His words are sharp and cold and commanding. Anger flashes momentarily in Snape’s eyes. “Don’t say his name, Darcy.”

For a brief moment, she considers snarling something cruel at him, but she refrains, lowering her eyes. “Sorry, Professor.”

“I know you tire of hearing it, but this year, there will be no talking back, there will be no stubbornness. In her presence, you will tell her what she wants to hear.”

“I’m supposed to lie?”

Snape pauses for a moment. “Yes. You’re going to lie, because telling the truth may very well cost you your job. But there is another matter the Headmaster was concerned about.”

“Go on, then.”

“Dolores Umbridge is not fond of werewolves.”

“I see.”

“I have no doubt that Umbridge knows of your—” Snape’s jaw clenches and he scrunches his nose. “ _Involvement_ with Lupin, and she will not be happy with it.”

As infuriating as this knowledge is, there’s something much heavier weighing on Darcy’s mind. “Professor,” she begins. Snape raises his eyebrows. “Would they—would they put me in Azkaban if—if I make a mistake?”

Snape doesn’t answer right away, but she doesn’t need him to confirm it to know the answer. Lupin has already confirmed her fears, but it hadn’t seemed real. She thought she would be safe at Hogwarts, and to know that someone inside could possibly be working, not only against Dumbledore, but against _her_ , as well, is not what she’d expected. The thought of Azkaban frightens her—the thought of being confined in a small cell with dementors floating around, making her relive her worst memories, her worst fears, makes her shiver. She remembers the dementor on the train, what it had made her remember, what it had made her see. She remembers how Azkaban had so greatly changed Sirius from the handsome young man to hardly more than a skeleton.

Darcy looks Snape straight in the eye as the thestral begins to slow, approaching the castle. “I would rather die than go to Azkaban.”

The silence that follows is the longest one yet. “While you are here, under my protection at Hogwarts, I will not allow them to send you to Azkaban.” Snape leans back in his seat. “As long as you do as you are told, I will see to it that you remain here, with me.”

His words take her breath away. It’s a bold statement, one Darcy never would have expected from Snape, but she wants so badly to take him at his word. This man, who has saved her from death not once, but twice… “Do you promise?”

The carriage slows to a halt. “I promise.”


	14. Chapter 14

_Oh, know the perils, read the signs,_  
_The warning history shows,_  
_For our Hogwarts is in danger_  
_From external, deadly foes_  
 _And we must unite inside her_  
 _Or we’ll crumble from within._  
 _I have told you, I have warned you…_  
 _Let the Sorting now begin._

Strange thing after strange thing after strange thing, it seems. Not only has the Sorting Hat finished his usual witty and charismatic song with this peculiar warning, but at the very end of the table, where Hagrid should be sitting, Darcy spies Professor Grubbly-Plank clapping politely. An old witch with short, gray hair, one thing sticks out vividly in Darcy’s mind about her, and it’s the smell of her pipe smoke. She is not, thankfully, puffing on the pipe now, but Darcy feels that she can almost smell it. On the other side of the table, sitting beside Dumbledore with a wide and wicked smile stretched across her face, is another witch that Darcy had recognized before Snape had even said anything.

Clad all in pink—a pink cardigan, a pink skirt, a pink headband that keeps her curly brown hair from falling in her eyes—Dolores Umbridge seems the least dangerous person in the world. But Darcy knows better. She had walked out of the courtroom with Cornelius Fudge the day of Harry’s hearing, had given Darcy a very curious and appraising look before leaving her to talk with the Minister. More infuriating, Snape had explained she’d passed anti-werewolf laws in the past, and drafted many more still waiting to be voted on. But despite her innocent appearance, Darcy thinks there’s something sinister behind her false smile, lips pursed together in a very Aunt Petunia way, and there’s something cold in her eyes.

What unsettles Darcy the most, however, is how much Umbridge looks at her. Not that she says anything—thankfully, Darcy has been spared that much, at least. Umbridge had seemed to pick her out right away when she had entered the Great Hall with Snape, and her eyes had followed Darcy all the way up to the staff table, where Darcy had taken her seat. Even now, Umbridge’s gaze often falls on Darcy, and it’s not as if she’s even trying to hide it. The horrid woman will turn her entire body in her seat, as if making it a point to tell Darcy—without really saying it— _I’m watching you._

Darcy picks at her food after the Sorting, not speaking much. Snape talks for a little bit about what he wants her to do with the first year class, but she hardly listens. Her eyes scan the Gryffindor table, and she’s relieved to see Harry, Hermione, and Ron sitting together, talking to their fellow students and Nearly Headless Nick. As if able to feel her eyes upon his neck, Harry turns quickly to meet her gaze, and with simply a single look, she knows that he’s noticed every she has. When at last he looks away again, Darcy returns to her food, humming absently as Snape talks.

She thinks hard about what Snape had told her in the carriage. _I have a part to play,_ she tells herself. _Dumbledore wants me here for a reason_. Regardless of that reason, knowing that Umbridge is at Hogwarts seems to up the stakes for her. Maybe she is spying on Dumbledore, but she has a bad feeling this will go sour in regards to Harry, as well. And she comes to the conclusion that she _must_ _not mess this up_.

When Dumbledore begins his feast, Darcy looks around the Great Hall. No one seems to pay much attention to her. Even Umbridge has focused her attention on the Headmaster, smiling disgustingly sweetly, and Darcy leans in closer to Snape, opening her mouth to speak, but—

“Hem, hem.”

Darcy jumps, the soft sound echoing throughout the silent Great Hall. She closes her mouth promptly, looking to the other side of the table to find Umbridge standing, her hands held in front of her. Sitting down, Darcy had not realized how short she is, probably not tall enough to rest her head on Darcy’s shoulder. And not only is she short, but squat, as well; as Umbridge walks around the staff table to give a speech, it seems as if each small movement threatens the fabric she’s dressed in.

Completely forgetting Snape, Darcy continues to watch the scene curiously, and Umbridge clears her throat again. Dumbledore has the grace to allow her to give her speech, sitting back in his chair as Umbridge surveys the many students snickering and smirking to each other. Darcy leans back in her chair, exchanging a wary look with Snape as Umbridge clears her throat again.

Professor Umbridge’s voice is not what Darcy had expected—or maybe it is. It’s soft and squeaky, like a mouse gasping for breath. She looks down the staff table again to check for other reactions; Dumbledore is listening carefully as Umbridge makes it known that education of young witches and wizards is vital, and the teachers who do so should be celebrated. Her words sound practiced and false, and Darcy notices Professor McGonagall looking outraged, her lips drawn tight together, a deep crease between her knitted brows. In fact, all of the teachers look either confused or very like McGonagall. Snape’s face is unreadable, as it usually is, and Darcy follows his lead, looking at Umbridge with her most impassive face.

“...There again, progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering…”

Darcy’s eyes begin to wander towards the Gryffindor table again, where Hermione listens attentively. Ron is picking at his fingernails, and Harry’s eyes are glazed over—but his aren’t the only ones. Nearly half the students looks bored to tears by her speech, while others talk with their friends or pay no attention whatsoever.

“...because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognized as errors of judgement…”

Butterflies erupt in Darcy’s stomach, but she listens to the rest of Umbridge’s speech before speaking to Professor Snape.

“Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

This seems to be the end of her speech, and Dumbledore claps first. Snape only claps twice before lowering his hands, and Darcy does the same. The smattering of applause from the students isn’t enthusiastic at all, and when Umbridge takes her seat, she looks at Darcy for a long time with a smile on her face.

Darcy looks at her in return, not bothering to smile. “She’s going to get me thrown out, isn’t she?” Darcy whispers, tearing her eyes away from Umbridge to look at Snape again.

Snape raises an eyebrow, considering Darcy. “She can try.”

As soon as Dumbledore dismisses the students for their dormitories, Snape rushes Darcy out of the Great Hall before Umbridge has a chance to approach her. She feels much like the Minister of Magic, or even one of the movie stars Aunt Petunia is so fond of—Snape’s hand is firm on the back of her neck, navigating the tide of students to keep her from being interrogated. Darcy doesn’t know why it gives her such a rush; adrenaline courses through her at the thought of a simple conversation with Dolores Umbridge.

“Where are we going?” Darcy asks, as they continue climbing the staircases, far ahead of the students being herded to their common rooms. “My room isn’t up here.”

“The Headmaster thought you might like a change of scenery,” Snape explains quietly, finally letting his hand fall from her neck as they round a corner on the sixth floor.

“He does realize I work in the bowels of the castle, doesn’t he?” Darcy frowns, dreading the thought of climbing up and down so many staircases everyday. Living in Gryffindor Tower had been bad enough, but she thought those days were over. She throws him an easy smile. “At least I’ll have very muscular calves by the end of the year, sir. Though, with all the cigarettes I’ve smoked over the summer, I might drop dead from all the exercise.”

“A filthy habit,” Snape says. He leads her down another corridor, a hand upon her back. His touch makes her squirm slightly—not that she minds a hand upon the nape of her neck or a guiding hand, but all she can think of is Lupin. All she wants is his hand on the small of her back, her own hand in his. “Here.”

They stop in front of a large portrait of a woman that reminds Darcy of Mrs. Weasley—maternal, warm, and kind. She’s a pretty woman, her face smooth and her cheeks red. In her arms is a swaddled, sleeping babebeing rocked ever so slightly by its mother. Darcy jumps when she opens her mouth to speak. “Good evening, Darcy Potter,” the woman says, and her voice is hushed, so as not to wake the baby. “What’s your middle name, dear?”

“Er—Lily,” Darcy says slowly, and the woman nods, opening the door to reveal the room within. Snape follows her inside, letting the portrait close of its own accord.

The room is beautiful, twice the size of the room she’d had last year. The fireplace is big enough for her to stand in, a warm fire already crackling in it. There’s two sofas on the inside, as well as a cozy looking armchair, and a table to eat at big enough for several people to sit around. The ceiling is high, making the room look even bigger, and Snape leads her to the back. The bedroom is spacious—the bed is slightly bigger than her bed at Grimmauld Place, and there’s a large wardrobe in one corner, complete with drawers and enough room to fit her entire collection of clothes. Her trunk lies on the bed, and Max’s empty cage along with it. The window is open, letting in the sweet summer air, and Darcy hopes Max returns soon.

“Why isn’t there just a password to get in?” she asks, peeking into the bathroom.

“Because _anyone_ can give a password,” Snape explains, leading her back out of the bedroom. “The Headmaster has instructed your portrait to only let certain people inside, and even those people must answer questions about you. You must talk with her so she knows you better.”

“Who is she allowed to grant entry?”

“You, Dumbledore, myself, your brother, and your brother’s friends.”

Darcy nods, wrapping her arms around herself. “All right.”

“Is there anything else you need?”

She shrugs. “No, sir. This is wonderful.”

Snape looks mildly uncomfortable for a minute, clearing his throat. “You don’t…” He clenches his jaw, as if what he’s about to say will physically pain him. However, once his body relaxes, Darcy knows she will not hear the end of his sentiment. “Goodnight, Darcy.”

She watches as he turns on his heels, his black robes billowing behind him as he makes for the door. “Goodnight, Professor.”

* * *

Darcy tosses and turns all night, her dreams unpleasant and fearful. She sees Cedric’s dead face in her dreams—it changes from his face to Mrs. Duncan’s, to her mother’s. She waits for Sirius’s warm embrace that always comes afterwards, but it doesn’t this time. Tom Riddle is in her dreams, extending an off-white colored hand with slender fingers to her, not quite human. He speaks to her—opens his mouth to speak—but all that comes out are the dreadful screams of the diary being destroyed. His face is handsome and casual, but the screaming—

Tom Riddle’s handsome face is replaced by Peter Pettigrew’s, looming above her—the only face in sight. Everything is dark, except for his face, crying and babbling like a stupid baby—like herself…

And then there’s a _CRACK_! and Gavin is lying dead on the floor, his blond hair disheveled and eyes open in fright, his likeness to Ludo Bagman very pronounced— _CRACK_! It’s Snape now, his black robes soaked with blood, lying in a pool of it— _CRACK_! Sirius is a corpse again, in earnest this time, lifeless. He doesn’t open his limp arms for her, doesn’t smile at her presence. _CRACK_! Gemma’s face is pale and still, the hint of a smile playing at her lips, dark eyes unseeing. _CRACK_! Lupin’s lying spread-eagle on the ground, blood leaking from his mouth, his nose, his eyes— _CRACK_!

Darcy wakes with a start, screaming bloody murder. Her chest heaving, shaky and weak, drenched in cold sweat, her face covered in tears, and tangled in the blankets, she takes in her surroundings. The image of Lupin had been so vivid—the image of him lying dead before her, eyes closed to hide the pretty light brown color she adores, blood leaking from everywhere, his long and lanky limbs outstretched at awkward, unnatural angles. She wishes she could wipe the memory from her brain, and before Darcy can make it to the bathroom to splash some water on her face, she promptly vomits over the side of her bed.

Sobbing and dry heaving, Darcy thinks the bed feels much bigger, colder, and emptier than any bed she’s ever slept in. Maybe it’s because she’d been sharing a bed with Gemma for the past few weeks, but Darcy suddenly remembers how much she hates sleeping alone. While having Gemma here would be nice, Darcy wishes Lupin were here—she can feel the phantom fingertips against her back, but they aren’t enough. She doesn’t just want, but _needs_ his arms around her to hold her, _needs_ his hands to wipe her tears away and hold her hair back and help her into a warm bath. She _needs_ his lips to murmur words of comfort against her skin, against her own lips.

Shaking Lupin from her thoughts, Darcy manages to calm herself, taking a few deep breaths. She reaches over into her nightstand drawer, procuring a cigarette. Lighting it, she slips out of bed and into the bathroom. Her watch, on the sink with her necklace, reads 4:17. The silver mirror hanging just above the sink shows a horrifying picture—Darcy’s near white as a ghost, her chest shimmering and soaked, her eyes swollen and surrounded by dark circles that look like bruises. Underneath the thin strap of her pajama shirt, the scars on her shoulder are puffy and more irritated than usual. She rolls her shoulders, taking a pull from her cigarette and tearing her eyes away from the scars.

 _I will never be able to forget him with these staring me in the face_. They’re ugly things that make her uncomfortable sometimes. She remembers Oliver Wood touching them and recoiling in horror; Ludo Bagman flinching upon feeling them over her cloak; Mr. Weasley looking disgusted when they’d been revealed to him.

“What the fuck,” Darcy breathes, running a hand down her face, her palm coming back slick with sweat and tears. She ashes the cigarette into the sink without thinking, staring at herself for a little while longer.

It’s hard not to think about Lupin. And after what she had dreamed, it’s near impossible. She wonders if she should send Max to him at Grimmauld Place, just to make sure everyone was all right. She could address it to Sirius to make her look less desperate. _I’ve only just arrived here. They’ll think I’m crazy for being so afraid._

But even as Darcy thinks it, a part of her knows Lupin would never think her crazy. Mrs. Weasley’s boggart had frightened her—not only because seeing Harry dead is still one of her worst fears, but because that fear is now closer than ever. At any given moment, any of the people she loves could die, as quickly as she had lost her parents.

She can hardly imagine a life without Harry. It’s a foreign thing, a future that seems bleak and depressing and ends in less than ideal circumstances. To think of a life where Lupin is no longer around—to think of a life devoid of his casual smiles and contagious laughter, of his love and touches—is one she would rather not think of at all. Darcy thinks, if forced to suffer another loss, she’ll likely die of a broken heart. Surely losing Sirius would break her. To lose Gemma, Emily, Hermione, or even Ron...

Darcy considers herself in the mirror once more, bringing her cigarette back to her lips.

_Even Snape._

* * *

Perhaps she should have expected it.

As Darcy makes her way down to breakfast the next morning, she hears the whispers. Students break off hushed conversation when she passes, watching her until she’s out of sight. Younger students flee at the mere sight of her, even after a polite, “Good morning.” Darcy finds it highly likely Harry had gone through the same thing upon reuniting with the rest of his House, and she feels a very sudden and sharp pang of sadness and sympathy for her brother.

Thankfully, her brother soon approaches, shoulder to shoulder between Ron and Hermione. Darcy’s heart lightens at the sight of them. Hogwarts never seems a lonely place with them at her side, she thinks. Hermione, at least, looks pleased to see her, looping their arms together. “Darcy, I was just telling them about inter-House unity—I mean, Gemma was a Slytherin, and she’s your best friend—”

“I’m not going to be chumming around with any Slytherins, so don’t hold your breath,” Ron grumbles, rolling his eyes.

“That’s a prejudiced way of thinking, Ron,” Darcy frowns. “Not all Slytherins are bad. It just so happens that most of the fifth year ones are awful.”

“I’ve always thought Gemma should’ve been in Gryffindor,” Ron says thoughtfully. “She doesn’t belong with all those other prats.”

“You think just because she isn’t a bad person, she can’t possibly be a Slytherin? Gemma’s proud to be a Slytherin. The core traits are very admirable.” Darcy’s face suddenly darkens. “Besides, bad wizards can be in any House. Peter Pettigrew was a Gryffindor.”

“Gemma isn’t innocent,” Hermione presses. “She owns a house-elf. And I wish you hadn’t forced Lupin into feigning interest in S.P.E.W., Darcy—how humiliating—”

“I didn’t force him into anything,” Darcy answers defensively, quickening her pace down one of the staircases to hide her pink cheeks from everyone. “It’s not that he isn’t interested, it’s just...elf rights are complicated, Hermione. Let’s not talk about it here, all right?”

“Hey, where’s your new place at?” Ron asks suddenly, jumping onto the landing beside Darcy as the staircase begins to shift. “You’ve got to tell us the password.”

“There is no password this time,” Darcy replies. “You have to answer a question about me.”

Ron furrows his brow. “That’s stupid! I’ll never be able to get in. I don’t even know your favorite color.”

“It’s red.” Darcy glances over her shoulder to get a look at Harry. He looks sullen, his hands deep in the pockets of his robes. “What’s wrong, Harry?”

Harry meets her eyes for a split second, sighing heavily. “People think I’m a liar.”

Darcy purses her lips. “You knew that would happen,” she whispers, slowing down again to walk beside him. “They’ll find out the truth soon enough. They can’t keep it a secret forever.”

He doesn’t answer, but Darcy doesn’t pester him. Harry doesn’t seem in the mood to talk now, but she’s sure they’ll be able to have a better conversation in the privacy of her room. Instead, Hermione fills the silence again. “What did you think of Professor Umbridge’s speech, Darcy?”

She opens her mouth to answer, but hesitates. Looking around, expecting someone to be listening, Darcy closes her mouth for a moment until they’re down another flight of stairs. “We can talk about it later,” she says warningly, and the rest of the walk to the Great Hall is silent.

Darcy slides into her seat beside Snape, avoiding eye contact with Umbridge the whole time. “If you had told me, last year, that there was a more terrifying teacher than Professor Moody, I would have laughed in your face,” she tells him. “I can’t tell if she’s a nicer sight than him, to be honest.”

“You’re still afraid of him?”

“It’s the eye,” Darcy says, very seriously, giving a dramatic shudder. “I feel like he’s seeing me naked when it looks at me.”

She begins to fill her plate with food, unable to ignore Snape’s watchful eye. “You don’t look well,” he notes.

Darcy glances quickly at him before eating her first forkful of egg. “Nightmares,” she murmurs. As she continues to eat, she can still feel Snape’s eyes on her. Darcy lowers her fork, turning slightly to face him. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to read my mind. If you’re curious what I’m thinking, it’s much easier and much politer to just ask.” Darcy frowns, returning to her breakfast.

“What are you thinking?”

Darcy doesn’t even bother looking up at him. “It’s none of your business.”

Snape scowls at her, and they finish breakfast in silence.


	15. Chapter 15

“If you’d all like to join me at the table here, you’ll see that I’ve set aside some ingredients for us to look at. These ingredients are what you are going to be using for your Forgetfulness Potion today, so pay close attention—”

There’s a panicked buzz as the first years mutter to each other, sharing nervous glances with their Housemates. The Gryffindor and Hufflepuff students shuffle slowly to the front table, where all of the ingredients are ready to be studied. Darcy smiles at them sweetly, letting the chatter come to a halt after a minute or so. A mousy Gryffindor girl with brown hair that falls a little past her ears raises her hand slowly, and everyone’s eyes flick to her.

“Yes?” Darcy asks.

“We’re supposed to...I mean, I’ve never brewed anything before,” the girl says, her voice shaking and soft as a whisper. “It’s only our first day of class.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Darcy answers, taking a step back to where Snape stands behind his desk. There’s a cauldron in front of him, already bubbling as he adds small amounts of different ingredients at the perfect times. She smiles at him, peering into the cauldron. “Professor Snape has very kindly agreed to brew the same potion so we can see in real time how it’s supposed to look. As long as you pay attention, there is no doubt in my mind that you will all have a very admirable attempt at a Forgetfulness Potion in your cauldrons by the end of the class.”

The first years look at Snape with wide eyes, fearful. Darcy can’t help but to chuckle, earning her a sharp and dangerous look from Snape. She remembers being in their shoes—looking at Snape for the first time at eleven-years-old and wanting nothing more than to bolt from the dungeon. It’s funny, she thinks, that sometimes—now, at nineteen and graduated from Hogwarts—the dungeon is her favorite place to be. Once the students seem to settle again, Darcy continues, moving back to her ingredients.

“Sprigs of Valerian,” Darcy begins again, holding up the first ingredient. The first years crowd around her, looking at the sprigs in wonder. They’re long stems with thin, narrow leaves and small, pink flowers growing from them. “A very useful _and_ pretty ingredient, and one I’m quite familiar with when I seek dreamless sleep…”

Darcy quickly introduces them to each ingredient as Snape continues to stir his potion behind her. To her great surprise, the door to the classroom opens in the middle of the lesson, and for half a heartbeat, Darcy begins to panic at the thought Umbridge has come to watch her teach. But a wave of relief washes over her at the sight of Professor Dumbledore slipping into the classroom. He smiles at her, seating himself at an empty desk in the back. As she sets the students to their task, the instructions on the blackboard, Dumbledore finally approaches her.

“What a fun and educational lesson,” Dumbledore says, inclining his head politely. “If you keep this up, Darcy, our dear Professor Snape may find himself out of a job.”

Darcy blushes furiously, tucking her hair behind her ears. Snape doesn’t look very entertained by Dumbledore’s jape, but hides his scowl well. “I enjoy teaching, sir,” Darcy confesses quietly, quickly scanning the dungeon classroom to make sure everything is calm. “I’d forgotten after—after everything that happened at the end of last year.”

“Quite understandable,” Dumbledore continues, holding up a hand to stop her before she says anymore. “I am sorry to intrude upon your lessons, Darcy, and your classroom, Severus. You know that I am a busy man, and I was eager to see you teach. Are you happy with your living arrangements?”

“Very,” Darcy smiles, nodding. “It’s—well, it’s a lot of space.”

“The better to accommodate your brother and his friends. I’m glad to hear that you are happy with it.” Dumbledore opens his mouth to continue, but someone calls out, “ _Darcy_!” and both she and Snape hurry over to a Hufflepuff boy with thick-rimmed glasses, whose cauldron is overflowing, splashing the tabletop and the boy, and emitting green steam.

Darcy quickly removes the cauldron from the flame and the substance within promptly stops bubbling. The steam curling upwards nearly chokes her, making her cough and gag, and Snape takes the cauldron from her hands to dump the failed attempt at a Forgetfulness Potion. The boy is shaking like a leaf, his face bright red and his soft brown eyes watery. “Did you put the Mistletoe berries in too early?” she asks gently, unable to keep her smile at bay.

Horrified, the boy nods, covering his face with his hands.

“Go clean out your cauldron and try again,” she says, drying the front of his damp robes with a silent spell. “And this time, don’t add the berries until the potion has sat for a little while. _And_ —” Darcy opens his book, flipping a few pages before settling on one. “The instructions are in your book, as well as the blackboard. Be careful next time. Eager though you are to learn a new potion, you must remember the cost of such a mistake in this class. Adding an ingredient too early in some cases may be the difference between life and death. But otherwise, not a terrible first attempt. Good job.”

The boy scurries off, quick as a mouse, to retrieve his cauldron from Professor Snape. While Snape looks severely unhappy, he says nothing else on the subject and pushes the boy’s cauldron back in his arms. Darcy resumes her place at Dumbledore’s side, and the Headmaster chuckles softly, smiling at her and giving a short bow. Before long, however, more students have begun to raise their hands, calling her name, more comfortable asking for help after watching her help the Hufflepuff boy. Darcy sighs exasperatedly.

“It seems you have everything under control here,” Dumbledore says. “I’ll leave you for now, but not before telling you that you do seem to have a knack for teaching. You remind me of another teacher I’m sure all of us sorely miss.”

Darcy looks away from him to blush furiously again, swelling with pride.

When Dumbledore leaves, Snape appears at her side, making a disgruntled grunt. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” he asks mildly.

“Is it such a crime to enjoy being praised?” Darcy cocks an eyebrow. “Not like you ever indulge me.”

She’s not sure what she expected from Snape. His kindness towards her certainly does not extend to her brother, who is his victim during their second class of the day. Sure, the Draught of Peace is a difficult potion, but O.W.L. level—and sure, Harry has never quite been the potioneer that Darcy was during her school years (and it doesn’t help Snape doesn’t allow her to help him when she watches Harry make a mistake that will ruin his potion). But it seems that most of the class is the same way. No one except Hermione seems to be able to brew a perfect Draught of Peace, but Snape takes all of his anger out on Harry.

When Snape criticizes Harry’s potion and dispels the entire contents of his cauldron, deeming it worthless and securing Harry a zero for the day, Darcy’s brother is left seething. It’s not her place to call Snape out on it, either. Maybe last year, she would have said something, snapped at Snape, or given him a hard stare, but she bites her tongue when she remembers the promise she’d made about speaking out of turn. When class ends, Harry doesn’t even meet Darcy’s eyes before leaving.

Snape tries to hurry, it seems, from the classroom to attend to lunch. Darcy stops him before he’s able to leave her standing there, arms crossed over her chest. “What did you do that for?” she asks, frowning. “Harry’s potion wasn’t even the worst.” Darcy grabs Neville’s sample vial off the desk, holding it up and showing off the hardened potion within. “Why did you have to be so cruel? You think you can just do things like that and get away with it?”

He works his jaw furiously for a moment. “Don’t question my teaching methods.”

“I don’t think that’s a very effective method at all,” she protests. “And I would greatly appreciate it, Professor, if you gave my brother credit for his potion today.”

Snape grumbles under his breath, opening the door of the classroom and turning back to look at Darcy. “Are you coming?”

“Are you giving Harry credit?”

He looks ready to strangle her, anger flashing in his eyes. However, he gives a very slight and reluctant nod and beckons her closer. Darcy’s frown is quickly replaced by a smile and she makes her way to the door in a few long strides. Snape places a firm hand on her back and leads her from the dungeons to the Great Hall.

Thankfully, after lunch, both Darcy and Snape have a free period. Darcy had planned on spending this time writing a letter to someone at Grimmauld Place, just to make sure everything is all right, but Snape has different plans. Before Darcy even finishes her lunch, Snape insists she return to her room so they can speak privately. Wary, Darcy looks at him for a long time before getting to her feet, leading Snape to the portrait hole.

“How do you like your tea, Darcy Potter?” the woman asks, smiling warmly still.

“I don’t like tea.”

The woman nods, and her portrait swings open slowly to reveal the doorway. Darcy seats herself on the sofa and starts a fire, slightly surprised when Snape sits down on the same on. She puts as much distance between them as she can, holding her knees to her chest. “What is this about?” Darcy asks him.

“I want to know what you’re going to say to Umbridge when she finally speaks with you.”

“I…” Darcy hesitates, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t know—I guess I thought I’d be as nice as I can. Just like another Ludo Bagman.”

“I’m going to stop you there,” Snape sighs, rubbing his temples. “Dolores Umbridge is not Ludo Bagman. I highly doubt she will take to you the way he did, and she will not receive your charm quite so much. Perhaps these tricks work with other men, but not her. Umbridge will not care if you are pretty or charming—those things do not matter to her. What matters is that you are competent and that you are not repeating the story the Headmaster has put out there.”

“I’m sorry, but won’t it seem obvious if I tell her I think Harry—my own brother—is a liar?” Darcy asks, narrowing her eyes. Snape is seated uncomfortably and awkwardly straight at the far end of the sofa, and Darcy suddenly realizes how weird the entire situation is. “I mean, surely she knows already that I believe him? That I believe Professor Dumbledore? If she asks whether or not I believe Voldemort is back, it’s only to figure out if I’m willing to tell her the truth or not, right?”

“I expect you’re right,” Snape replies, and Darcy smiles sheepishly, sitting up straighter and feeling a sense of pride. “However, the Headmaster and I believe that the _way_ you say things could appease her.”

“All right.” Darcy purses her lips, thinking hard. She gets to her feet, pacing before the fire, Snape’s black eyes following her as she strokes her chin and runs her fingers through her hair. Just looking at Professor Umbridge—always in pink and dressed so nicely—and after hearing her breathy voice and her uneasy, sugar-coated speech, Darcy has a good idea of what may appease Umbridge. The problem is, Darcy really doesn’t want to do it.

To play the part Aunt Petunia had wanted her to play for years seems more of a challenge than teaching first years. Sometimes it’s easy to put on her little lady facade for a few minutes, to charm something out of someone or to protect herself, but thinking about having to be that person for nearly a year is nausea-inducing. But she _must_ —the last thing Darcy wants is to be forcibly removed from Hogwarts while danger lurks so near, and she certainly doesn’t want to be put in a cell in Azkaban because she couldn’t do what Snape had asked her to.

_It will be unpleasant_ , Darcy tells herself. _But I must be brave, for Harry._

“All right,” she says again. Darcy stops her pacing and looks into Snape’s face, nodding to herself. “All right. I can do it.”

Snape doesn’t seem convinced. “I am willing to intervene should there be talk of you being forced to leave Hogwarts,” he tells her, a warning. “But if you bring it on yourself with your inability to control your temper and shut your mouth, then there is nothing I can do for you.”

Darcy clenches her jaw. “I can do it,” she says. “Trust me.”

“Darcy, your entire reputation, your dignity, your life and future—everything rests on your relationship with Umbridge.” Snape exhales loudly through his nose, growing more frustrated with every passing second. But Darcy doesn’t understand—here she is, promising Snape that she’ll be a good girl and she’ll keep her mouth shut, and isn’t that what he wants? “Do you have any idea what she could do to you? Everything you say to her will be brought back to the Minister of Magic. Do you think Fudge thinks fondly of you after all you have done?”

“I know what they could do to me, and I can handle it,” Darcy retorts, growing angry. She tries to keep a level head, not wanting to prove to Snape that she can’t control her anger.

“She will say things that I know will anger you. She is going to try and provoke you into saying the wrong things. She will attack your blessed werewolf, question your brother’s and your own sanity. She will not be kind.”

Darcy rolls her eyes, unable to stop herself. “Professor Snape, I can handle it because I know what may happen to me,” she counters. “After everything that was written about me last year—after what…” She trails off for a moment, resuming her pacing, flexing her fingers at the thought of Vernon’s hand coming down hard upon her face. “I am used to people not being kind to me, and you’ve seen the truth of it, the night I came to Grimmauld Place.”

Snape shifts upon the sofa before finally deciding to get to his feet. “Was it your uncle?”

She blinks in surprise, her face hardening. “What does it matter?”

“What happened?”

Darcy looks away from him, turning towards the fire so her back is to him. She wraps her arms around herself. “He found photographs and letters between Remus and me.” There's a heavy silence that falls over them—an uncomfortable one. “I know what could happen to me. You don’t have to remind me. I’m telling you, I can do this.”

She expects Snape to argue, truthfully. “Does he hit you often?”

She hesitates, looking into the fire. Darcy struggles to find words for a moment, unsure of how much to tell him or even what to say. She’s afraid to look into his face, to break upon looking him in the eyes again. And then she remembers who it is that’s standing behind her—Professor Snape, who has been uncommonly kind towards her, but is still cruel to Harry, to Lupin, to Sirius—to the people that she loves. _He’s the reason Remus had to leave Hogwarts. He’s the reason Sirius had to go back into hiding_. “Please go,” she whispers, closing her eyes and letting the heat of the flames wash over her, “before I make the stupid mistake of thinking you actually care about me.”

Part of her is hurt when he actually does leave with no further word.

The rest of the day does not go as smoothly as Darcy hopes. When finally she rejoins Snape for their last class before dinner—a sixth year N.E.W.T. level class made up primarily of Ravenclaws—she finds that they’re not very happy to have Darcy back at Hogwarts. She hears the students whispering to each other about Harry’s story, about Dumbledore. They give her strange and sometimes condescending looks, as if they know something she doesn’t. _At least the Houses are getting along, even if it is at my brother’s expense_ , she thinks, wondering if Hermione would say the same.

She doesn’t bother going to the Great Hall for dinner, instead returning to her room (first stopping by the kitchens to load herself up a plate of her favorite foods), and that’s how Harry and his friends find her—seated by the fire with her feet up on the coffee table, thumbing through a heavy book with one hand and shoveling food into her mouth with the other.

“Please, come in,” Darcy mutters flatly, not bothering to look up from her book as Ron flops into the armchair. “Make yourselves at home.”

“Why didn’t you say something to Snape? My potion was better than most and you let him give me a zero!”

Darcy swallows her food, looking up at her brother with an incredulous expression. Harry’s face is red and his forehead looks slightly damp with sweat. “I didn’t let him give you a zero,” she scoffs. “I just had the decency to wait until class was let out to say something. You think I would have stayed quiet? After that miscarriage of justice?”

“Well—I—” Harry blushes, rubbing the back of his neck and stammers stupidly. “I mean—”

“You’re welcome,” Darcy sighs, looking around at her company. She closes her book. “How was everyone’s first day back?”

Harry scowls. “You mean besides the fact that everyone thinks I’m a liar, Snape humiliated me in front of the—”

“Harry, could you please stop snapping at me?” Darcy interrupts, frowning. “I took care of your grade in Potions, and it’s not my fault that people don’t believe the truth. I want to hear what you have to say—I know you’re upset and angry, but please don’t take it out on me.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, sitting down beside his sister. Darcy smiles weakly at him, placing a hand on his cheek and drawing her face closer. Placing a kiss atop his head, Harry promptly draws away from her.

“Did you guys have Umbridge today?” Darcy asks again, pushing her half-finished plate of dinner towards Ron, who eyes it greedily. He grins, grabbing at her fork. “How was she?”

Hermione and Harry exchange a nervous look, and even Ron seems hesitant to explain. Finally, when no one speaks, Hermione looks to Darcy from the opposite sofa. “She’s awful,” she whispers, as if Umbridge might be listening in. “She won’t let us use magic at all, and she’s given Harry detention for the entire week for telling the truth—”

“What? What do you mean she won’t allow you to use magic? What did you say, Harry?”

“She called me a liar,” Harry hisses, fuming again. “She doesn’t think there’s anything in the real world that’ll attack us—there’s no real need for defensive spells, she says. It’s all theory—all books. And she said Cedric’s death was an accident—”

“You shouldn’t have said those things!” Darcy says loudly, her heart pumping angrily at the thought of Umbridge. “Professor Umbridge is from the Ministry—of course she’ll deny Voldemort is back. You could get into serious trouble—”

“So I’m just supposed to live with her calling me a liar all year?”

“Yes,” Darcy answers, but she can tell Harry’s furious with her response just by looking at him. “Harry, if you keep going like this...do you _want_ to be expelled?”

Harry grinds his teeth. “Why are you doing that?”

Darcy lets out an exasperated sigh. “Doing what?”

“Talking to me like you’re my teacher.”

She bristles, her pride damaged, but she refuses to back down. “I _am_ your teacher, Harry. But speaking as your sister—”

“But you’re _not_ my teacher.” Harry wipes his palms on his pants, breathing rather quickly. “You sit in Snape’s classroom all day, listening to him insult me and Ron and Hermione—why are you even here, Darcy? Why did you come back when you don’t even do anything?”

“ _Harry_!” Hermione gasps.

“You’re out of order, mate,” Ron frowns, his mouth full of food. “Leave her alone.”

“Harry, I—” Darcy feels like crying; already the tears well in her eyes and Harry looks away from her, ashamed. Her voice is shaky and weak, breathless with hurt. “I came back for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to come back for me.” Harry’s voice is laced with venom and malice, and though Darcy’s sure he’s just taking out all of his anger on her and doesn’t mean it, but it hurts all the same. “I didn’t ask you to do any of this for me.”

“Harry—”

“Is that why Lupin left you? Because you wanted to come back here for me?”

When Darcy doesn’t answer, Harry seems to understand. His face falls instantly, and she shakes her head, reaching out for his hands. “No, Harry—”

Harry just looks at her for a long time. He runs a hand through his hair, finally lowering his eyes in his lap. Abruptly, Harry gets to his feet, glancing desperately at Ron. “Think I’ll just...go to bed now.”

“Yeah, all right. I have some homework anyway.” Ron plays along, joining Harry as he moves towards the door. But he looks over at his shoulder at Hermione before leaving. “Coming or not?”

“Oh,” Hermione says, shrinking back slightly in her seat. “I—I thought I’d stay with Darcy for a little bit longer.”

As the boys leave, Darcy gives Hermione an appraising look. She’s always had a soft spot for Hermione, ever since she’d started appearing at Harry’s side. Hermione had been exasperating at times, unconsciously charming at others, but always a steady force in Darcy’s life. Arguing and bickering are one thing, but Darcy and Hermione have never really fought, never really had a reason to keep their distance. Hermione has always come to Darcy for advice, always been comfortable enough to ask for help, always been open and honest.

“Would you like a butterbeer, Hermione?” Darcy gets to her feet and moves to the counter that lines the back wall. “I brought one from the kitchens, but...you can have it.”

“No, thank you,” Hermione replies meekly. “It’s yours.”

But Darcy has already begun to open a brand new bottle of firewhisky. She pours it into a glass, nearly to the brim, and she brings it back to the sofa with her, along with the butterbeer for Hermione. “You don’t have to join me in my misery,” Darcy smiles. It’s a forced and weak smile, but Hermione softens. “Don’t you have homework to do?”

Hermione watches Darcy take a long drink of firewhisky. She clears her throat as it burns her throat, warming her chest. “Should you be drinking, Darcy?”

Darcy considers her, taking another drink. “Probably not.” She continues to watch Hermione even when the younger girl looks away into the fire. “It’s true, you know. In June, I chose to come back to be with Harry. It’s where Professor Dumbledore wants me. It’s where I need to be. I chose this over Remus.”

Hermione’s eyes snap back to Darcy, a warm brown color.

“Do you want to know something, Hermione? Something I haven’t told anyone? Not even Gemma?”

She nods very slowly, as if unsure she wants to hear it at all.

Darcy finishes her glass of firewhisky, her chest burning, her head spinning already. “He asked me to marry him.”

Hermione’s hands jump to cover her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise. After a few moments, after realizing Darcy’s being truthful, she lowers her hands to her lap again. “He wanted to marry you?”

“Yes,” Darcy says. She puts her empty glass down and holds her face in her hands, not wanting Hermione to see her cry. The sofa creaks beside her and thin arms snake around Darcy’s neck.

“He didn’t mean it, you know,” Hermione whispers, resting her cheek against Darcy’s shoulder. “Harry wants you here.”

All Darcy can do is hope that it’s true.

* * *

_Remus,_

_I’m worried about everyone. I hope you’re all right. I keep wondering if, by Friday, everything will still be all right. I’m afraid I’m going to come home and find someone’s been killed, arrested, or gone missing. Please put my mind at ease and tell me everything will be fine._

_Our first class of the day was a group of first years, and Snape let me teach. I think I’m quite good at it. They aren’t even scared of me anymore—though I find it hard to believe people could ever be frightened of me to begin with._

_I have also been given a new place. It’s bigger than the one you were living in, but not by much. To get in, you have to answer a question about me. Snape says it’s to keep anyone from coming in. I don’t know how I feel about it, considering sometimes I don’t even know who I am. I haven’t been wrong about an answer yet—but it is only the first day, so I shouldn’t speak too soon._

_The new Defense teacher is Dolores Umbridge, someone from the Ministry. She gave a speech at the start of term feast, and it set my teeth on edge. I’ll tell you about it this weekend. She isn’t teaching her students any magic, and has already given Harry detention for telling the truth about Voldemort. Snape seems very on edge about the idea of she and I talking. He’s trying to warn me and coach me every moment he can. He’s afraid that she’ll try to get me kicked out or sent to Azkaban. I’m scared, as well, but I think I’ll be able to tell her what she wants to hear—should she actually want to talk to me._

_Tell Padfoot I miss and love him with all of my heart, and I’ll be there Friday night._

_Hope all is well and write back soon,_

_Darcy_


	16. Chapter 16

“You’ll never guess who I saw at St Mungo’s today.”

“Who?”

“Oliver Wood.” Gemma wriggles her eyebrows, a mouthful of food preventing her from really speaking clearly. “And he’s gotten more handsome. He fell off his broomstick at Quidditch practice and I offered to patch him up. He actually looks quite good with a scruffy face, you know.”

Darcy listens carefully, picturing Oliver as the eighteen-year-old boy she’d known so well. She imagines he’s likely much stronger now, much bulkier, and the thought of Oliver sends a shiver down Darcy’s spine that she doesn’t quite like. Though, she knows Gemma has noticed. “Do you think if I reached out to him, he’d still be willing to meet up?” Darcy wonders outloud, privately wondering if Oliver Wood being inside her would make her feel any better. But then she remembers that she thought along those lines in regards to Gavin, and she hadn’t even been able to go through with it. “It would be nice to—you know...catch up.”

“Darcy,” Gemma answers warily, a smile playing at her lips. “You know I am all for girls getting off and having a good time, but it’s only been two days since you’ve gotten to Hogwarts, and you just slept with Lupin the night before you left.”

“What are you saying?” Darcy snaps, giving her friend a very dangerous, Snape-like look.

Gemma sighs, slumping back in her chair. “I’m not saying it’s a terrible idea to get in touch with Oliver—I mean, he did ask about you,” she confesses. “But when has fucking Oliver ever actually fixed anything? When has it ever actually made you happy?”

“Forgive me for wanting to actually feel wanted for a little while,” Darcy snorts, angrily stabbing at her overdone meat and sawing at it violently with her knife. “Oliver Wood has always been willing to fuck me—why shouldn’t I let him?”

“Because it will only make things worse between you and Lupin,” Gemma answers, watching Darcy with a slightly incredulous and also horrified expression as she continues to manhandle her cutlery. “I mean, how would you feel if he slept with Tonks because he felt lonely?”

Darcy’s breath hitches, and she tried to look casual about it, but Gemma’s smiling knowingly. “Does he want to?” she asks quickly. “Is he—is he going to? Has he told you?”

Gemma shakes her head, giving Darcy a sad and amused look. “How do you think he’d feel if he knew you were fucking Oliver?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Darcy growls, anger surging through her. She puts her fork and knife down, rubbing her temples. Holding up a hand to flag the barman down, she sighs. “Emily was right—he left me, so what should it matter? If he didn’t want me sleeping with other people, then he should have stayed.” She quietly thanks the man who refills her cup with the honeyed mead Dumbledore said he was fond of.

“What’s gotten into you, Darcy?” Gemma says, taking a long drink from her own cup. “What’s really going on?”

“Maybe I want him to hurt like he hurt me.”

“So your plan is to fool around with Oliver Wood and throw it in Lupin’s face?”

“Do you have any idea what this is like for me?” Darcy hisses, feeling bad for being so short with Gemma. But she can’t help it—she can’t stop being angry no matter how hard she tries, not like she’s tried very hard to begin with. “I have never been loved like he loved me, and now he’s gone, and I wake up and my bed is empty, and my heart is broken, and I thought sleeping with him would make it better, but all it did was make things worse—” She holds her head in her hands, wanting to go back to her room and cry and go to sleep. “And Harry came to the conclusion that Remus left me because I chose him and he asked me why I even came back, that he didn’t ask me to do this for him, and—and Umbridge is awful—”

“What happened?”

Darcy tells Gemma quietly about what Harry had said the previous night, how he’d left so abruptly despite her being upset. She tells her how Hermione had stayed with her for the better part of the night, not even speaking, just keeping her company. And then, she reaches into her pocket, pulling out a small piece of pink parchment that’s been folded neatly. Passing it to Gemma, she says, “Umbridge wants to meet for tea Thursday during lunch. I don’t even like tea.”

“You should tell her that before you go Thursday,” Gemma jokes, passing the short letter back across the table. “I’m sure it won’t be so bad.”

“You don’t know her,” Darcy snaps. “Snape is afraid I’m going to say something stupid and get myself chucked out, or thrown into Azkaban.”

“He’s right,” Gemma answers seriously, seemingly unaffected by Darcy’s harsh tone. “Look, the best thing you can do is just deny that You-Know-Who is back, and you know that’s what she’s looking for. Is Snape taking an interest in your wellbeing, Darcy?”

She’s on the verge of saying _no_ , but that isn’t right. Snape had surprised her in only two days—their conversation inside the carriage to Hogwarts had seemed the kind of thing Dumbledore would have asked him to do, but the scene that played out inside her private room had seemed off. That Snape would be concerned about Vernon hitting her—Darcy had wanted so badly to believe he _did_ care about her wellbeing then, but if he really did care about her, he wouldn’t continue to be cruel to those she loves. “Does it even matter?” Darcy mutters. “I hate him. He only pretends to care about me because he loved my mother.”

“You don’t hate him,” Gemma laughs. “Don’t give me that shit. He _does_ care about you. Why do you think Lupin was so jealous?”

Darcy runs a hand through her hair. All around her, people pay little attention to the two girls tucked away in the corner of the common room. There’s music playing tonight, which is a good thing, covering up their conversation along with the drunken buzz of chatter coming from the other patrons. Rain pounds on the windowpanes and the roof, further muffling their voices. “He had no reason to be jealous,” Darcy groans, suddenly not hungry anymore. “Look, the point is, I need someone to just— _touch_ me, and I don’t exactly have a massive pool to choose from.”

“If you’re really desperate, the guy behind you has been staring at you all night,” Gemma whispers, nodding over her shoulder.

Darcy looks hesitantly, disgusted by what she sees. The man must be in his mid-forties with the grayest and bushiest unkempt mustache she’s ever seen, his eyes puffy and his cheeks red. She turns back around, hoping he won’t approach them. “I’m not that desperate,” she sighs. “ _Yet_.”

Gemma doesn’t say anything, but continues to order them drink after drink, as the sun sets behind the mountain peaks and it’s completely dark outside the rain-spattered windows. Darcy isn’t sure how she’s going to make it back up to the castle with her head throbbing and the room spinning and her legs feeling like rubber. She might have to have Gemma walk her up, or summon a carriage—but that’s a problem for later. Darcy relishes the taste of the mead now, looking around the pub every so often for a sign of someone familiar, someone who wouldn’t mind stroking her ego for a little while.

But another part of her is slightly disturbed. Darcy’s craving of physical attention and affection makes her chest actually ache painfully. But what’s wrong with wanting to feel wanted? Why should she be chastised for seeking comfort after all that had happened in the past few months? Lupin had said it himself, only a few months ago— _take comfort where we can. In others, for instance._ It’s not as if she has someone at her disposal. As awful as Darcy had been to Oliver Wood, he was always waiting with open arms when Darcy decided to run to him. She wishes Gavin were here; if he were, there would be no hesitation, no reluctance this time around.

Finally, when Darcy insists loudly she cannot take anymore shots or drink anymore mead, Gemma helps her out of the pub. The fresh air feels good on her slightly damp and flushed face, but Hogwarts seems so far away that she almost wants to cry. She bids Gemma a drunken goodbye at the end of the High Street, mentally preparing herself for the long walk ahead of her, but before she takes her first step, something happens that throws her off guard. Gemma’s lips crash against hers, and Darcy tenses as her tongue grazes Darcy’s bottom lip.

Darcy pulls away, not out of anger or disgust, but out of utter confusion. “What are you doing?” she asks, looking around them to find the street completely empty. Darcy’s heart thumps violently against her chest, threatening to burst.

“Haven’t you ever kissed a girl before?” Gemma tilts her head to the side, grinning. When Darcy shakes her head slowly, Gemma chuckles, clearly drunk. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Someone to touch you?”

“Have _you_ ever kissed a girl before?”

“No,” Gemma shrugs. “But I’m open to the idea. You’re not the only one who’s lonely.” Sensing Darcy’s discomfort, she takes a step backwards and holds her hands up in surrender. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—”

“ _No_!” Darcy scoffs, clearing her throat. She can hardly talk, her heart still hammering. “I mean—if I was going to kiss a girl—you’re my best friend—I think you’re really pretty—it’s not you—”

“I get it, Darcy.” Gemma laughs heartily, her eyes heavy and her hair disheveled. Darcy admires her for being so calm about the whole thing, feeling stupid and childish and humiliated. “I only meant to make you feel better.”

“Oh—Gemma, you’re—you’re my best friend,” Darcy frowns. “I was only complaining to you, I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to make you think you had to—”

Gemma doesn’t seem abashed or even the slightest bit offended. Instead, she wraps her arms around Darcy, smelling strongly of firewhisky. Darcy relaxes, cheek to cheek with Gemma, closing her eyes and starting to cry against her. Gemma smooths her hair back. “I’ll see you this weekend, all right?” she whispers. “Don’t let Umbridge get to you.”

“If you don’t hear from me in over a week, just assume she’s brought me to Azkaban,” Darcy says, only half-joking.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gemma snorts, pulling away from Darcy. “None of us would ever let anyone take you to Azkaban.”

They laugh softly, trying to ease the tension, but the fear still lingers in the back of Darcy’s mind. “Thanks for coming,” Darcy says, wrapping her arms around herself. “It’s been a crazy two days back.”

“Anytime.” Gemma digs her hands into her pocket. “See you Friday. Hope you don’t mind me sleeping with you during the weekend.”

Darcy grins. “Never. See you Friday.”

* * *

By the time Darcy makes it back to her room near midnight, she finds there’s someone waiting for her.

Harry’s sitting on the sofa, breathing very heavily. “Harry?” Darcy asks carefully, slipping her jacket off and throwing it on the floor. “What are you doing here? Was the detention all right?”

But when she sits down beside him and sees his right hand, Darcy’s heart stops. He lifts his eyes to meet hers, and Darcy takes Harry’s hand in her own, brushing her thumb lightly over the back of his hand. It’s bright red, seemingly rubbed raw and looking as if there had been a cut there only a few minutes ago. Whenever her skin brushes the area or her fingers stray too close, Harry’s flinches. His breath is shaky, but he does not pull away from her, does not protest when she gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

“What is this?” she whispers, still clutching his hand, afraid to let go. Her heart is leaping in her throat, and the entire situation has sobered her up near completely, and her hands tremble.

Harry seems too afraid to speak, only looks at his sister helplessly. Darcy waits, as patient as she can, despite wanting to shake the answer out of him. “I had to do lines,” he rasps, eyes wide behind his glasses. “The quill—it used my blood.”

Horrified, Darcy thinks for a moment, not wanting to make him any worse. “I may have some Murtlap Essence,” she says, touching his cheek before getting to her feet. “It’ll help with the pain.” Darcy moves quickly to her bedroom, rummaging through all of her ingredients and potions, smelling some and replacing other with the utmost care. Finally, she finds some and puts it into a bowl for Harry to put his hand into. He does, and sighs with relief. “Harry, you have to tell someone,” Darcy says again, beginning to panic.

“No,” Harry replies shortly. Darcy looks at him incredulously. “I won’t give Umbridge the satisfaction. That’s exactly what she wants me to do.”

“No, Harry, you _have_ to tell someone.” Darcy runs a hand through her hair, exhaling loudly. “You have to go to Professor Dumbledore. She’s torturing you.”

“Dumbledore has enough to shoulder without me adding to it,” he protests, making his sister frown. “The other teachers—I don’t know if they even have the power to do anything—”

“You have to try.” Darcy feels tears prickle painfully in her eyes, and she pushes his hair back out of his face. His scar is unusually pronounced today, but she doesn’t mention it. “Harry, I can’t sit here and do nothing while Umbridge continues to torture you. Tell someone—Remus—!”

“And what would he be able to do about it?” Harry snaps, his cheeks turning pink. “You think he has any pull with the Ministry being what he is?”

Darcy scrunches her nose. “You don’t have to remind me what he is.” She rubs her watery eyes before tears begin to fall. “But if you tell him, or Sirius—maybe they could tell someone who could do something—”

“They’d go straight to Dumbledore and you know it,” Harry interrupts, and she knows he’s right. “You can’t tell anyone, Darcy. Please.”

“Harry, it’s my job to protect you—to keep you from getting hurt—how do you expect me to stand by and let this happen?”

Harry’s face falls, and there’s hurt in his eyes. Darcy’s chest is heaving—the knowledge that another teacher within Hogwarts would hurt Harry in such a way enrages her, makes her forget about Lupin and her loneliness. Those things seem unimportant after this discovery, and hatred for Umbridge flows through Darcy’s veins—hatred she has never known in regards to anyone except maybe Peter Pettigrew.

“I should have done more,” Harry admits, and Darcy’s brow furrows. “All those years I stood by and let Vernon hit you, I…I’m sorry, Darcy.”

“Oh, Harry…” Darcy smiles weakly, kissing his forehead, her lips touching the lightning bolt scar. “It’s not your job to take care of me.”

“Then whose is it?” Harry sighs. “I didn’t mean it, you know. I’m happy you’re here, really. But I—I’m sorry about Lupin.”

“I didn’t choose to come back here because I felt obligated to protect you,” she explains gently. “I came back because Dumbledore wants me here and because I love you, more than anything in this world.”

Harry takes a minute to register these words, and offers no more on the subject. “Thank you, Darcy. I should be going now.” He pulls his hand from the bowl and wipes it on his shirt. “Please don’t tell anyone. Not yet, at least.”

It takes Darcy all the strength she can muster to nod.

* * *

“What do you think of the rumors your brother has been spouting?”

“I don’t know that my brother understood what he was seeing, Professor. After all, the maze was supposed to be full of strange and powerful magic, wasn’t it? If there is evidence, however, I would like to see it.”

“Good. Put the drink down—you’ve had enough. And why is it you’ve come back to Hogwarts?”

“I’ve always had an interest in Potions. I asked Professor Snape if I’d be allowed back for a few years for experience. He said he needed a pretty young girl to help teach so people weren’t so afraid of him—”

Snape scowls from his seat upon her sofa. “Are you done?”

Darcy stretches, bending down to touch her toes and feeling her back pop. “How come you’re the one doing this? This seems more the thing Professor Dumbledore would do.” When she stands back up, she grabs her glass off the counter and takes another drink of firewhisky.

“The Headmaster is a busy man and often delegates…tedious and rather menial tasks to me.” Snape gives her a hard look as she finishes her drink. “And what about your supposed relationship with—” His thin lips twist into a vindictive smile. “The half-breed?”

Darcy glares right back at him. “She won’t ask me about him,” she hisses. “And don’t call him that.”

“Of course she’ll ask about him. And what will you say?”

She crosses her arms over her chest, frowning. “Why should I tell _you_?” Darcy cocks an eyebrow. “If you’re curious, just ask.” Turning her back on him, Darcy refills her glass, leaving the firewhisky bottle half-empty. “I won’t dehumanize him. You already did that when you told everyone he was a werewolf.”

“ _Dangerous_ ,” Snape snarls. Darcy whirls around to face him. “Surely I don’t need to remind you of that?”

Slightly drunk, a fire burns in her stomach, making her angry. “Dangerous once a month. Never dangerous if he takes his potion. I trust him with my life.” Rolling her eyes, Darcy mutters, “And he was a better teacher than you ever have been.”

“Excuse me?” Snape scoffs. “From the moment he set foot here, he couldn’t find the restraint to stay away from seventeen-year-old students.”

“Stop it.” Darcy’s voice is quiet, dangerous.

“How far do you imagine Umbridge is willing to go to discredit you? To make you lose control?” Snape doesn’t look away from her. “Someone like her, I’m sure, would…see the situation differently. A werewolf—a half-breed—and in a position of power at the time…if there were to be evidence such things happened while you were his student—”

Tears begin to flow unbidden. Darcy wipes them quickly with the back of her hand, furious. On one hand, Darcy thinks he’s probably right, that Umbridge may very well stoop to that level, especially after proving she had no qualms torturing her brother during detentions. But on the other hand, Darcy knows that Snape is trying to hurt her—knows that these words will get her riled up, knows what effect they will have. “Why do you have to be so cruel? Get out.”

Snape hesitates, but eventually gets to his feet. “I’m trying to help you, and you make it out to be a joke—”

“What does it matter to you?” Darcy cries, taking three long strides towards him and grabbing at his cloak. She pushes him towards the door, but Snape keeps his balance without faltering. “It’s not like you care what happens to me—”

“Right,” Snape growls. “I’ve only saved your life—”

“Why did you?” Darcy retorts. “Why did you save my life if you think you should have left me die there? All you care about is that you can hold that over my head—”

“And you are still, eternally ungrateful—”

“I’m _not_ ungrateful!” Darcy’s chest heaves and she blushes. “Last spring, when you pulled me from the lake, do you have any idea how grateful I was? Do you have any idea how _happy_ I was to see it was you who saved me?” She reaches out to shove him, but Snape is much sturdier than he seems. “But you make it hard to be grateful when you continue to mock me! To insult Remus—”

“Yes, and I’m sure you feel foolish now,” Snape sneers. “Thought you’d be together forever, did you? You should have known he’d run away eventually—he always does—a _coward_ —”

Darcy hits him in the chest with her fist, making Snape stumble backwards, losing his footing and trying hard to catch himself. “Get out!” she shrieks. “I _hate_ you! Everytime I think you care about me, you _ruin_ it!”

She goes to hit him again, forcing him slowly back towards the door. Snape catches her wrists and they struggle for a moment. Darcy tries to pull away, but his grip is too tight. His hands move to her upper arms, fingers curling tight around her, keeping hr in place. “Darcy—”

“Let go—”

“Stop—”

“What are you doing—”

Snape is trying pull her close, into his chest. She continues to fight against his hold, flailing like a wild and rabid animal, and his face looks pained with every attempt. Finally, Darcy gives up the struggle and finds herself too close to him for her liking, nearly nose to nose with Snape. She looks away, crying, wishing she were anywhere but here, wishing his fingers would release her. Bile burns her throat as it creeps up into her mouth, and for the first time in a very long time, Darcy thinks for a brief moment that Snape may be angry enough to hit her. “Who do you think you are?” he says quietly. “To talk to me the way that you do?”

“Please, Professor Snape,” she whispers. “Let me go.”

He does, almost immediately. Darcy takes a few quick steps backwards, bumping into the back of the sofa, cowering from him. The sight of her looking so afraid makes Snape’s face soften, but nothing can soften those cold, black eyes of his. They bore a hole right through her, never leaving her own eyes.

“Please leave,” she says again, her voice slightly more level and calm, wrapping her arms around herself. “And don’t come back.”

There’s a long pause and for a moment, Darcy doesn’t think he’s going to leave. But Snape seems to recognize defeat, his body deflating. He makes a move for the door, his hand upon it.

“I’m not _her_ ,” Darcy says suddenly, and as the words leave her mouth, she knows she shouldn’t have said it.

Snape’s words are icy, laced with venom. “I know who you are, Darcy. You need not remind me.” He clenches his jaw, looking at her for a very long time. Darcy wipes her tears again, and a muscle in his jaw twitches violently.

Darcy looks down at her feet, wondering what he’s thinking, wishing he could just learn how to be honest and open and not care so much about hiding his true feelings. She wishes he would stop jerking her around, stop hurting her feelings for no real reason. She wishes he could tell her the truth instead of hurling cruel words at her whenever things become too much for him.

But thinking those things makes Darcy hate herself—it’s a disgusting feeling, to think Snape may actually care about her, and a worse feeling to think that she may actually care about him.


	17. Chapter 17

_Darcy,_

_Careful what you put in letters now. If Max were to be intercepted, it wouldn’t look good for you if you were gossiping freely about other teachers. I hope you read this and picture my face clearly—you know what face I’m talking about. The one I give you when you talk and talk and talk. I know you know._

_I have to admit, I was surprised when I woke to Max tapping on my window. Smart bird, and I’m relieved he’s stopped pecking my fingers. The damn owl follows me everywhere while he’s here. Probably expecting treats from me—I’ve been too liberal in handing them out, I’m afraid. It seems I’ve created a monster._

_Also, funnily enough, I woke up to a dead rat outside my door. I don’t think it was meant as a gift, either, like it was meant for Gemma. I think it was meant to discourage me, and possibly coerce me into leaving. Though—to his enormous disappointment, I’m sure—it had neither effect. I suppose dead rats aren’t so terrible compared to what I’ve been through. Nothing I cannot handle, but I will see to it that it doesn’t happen again. At least I didn’t step on it._

_I’ll see you this weekend, and you can tell me everything._

_Padfoot sends all of his love._

_Remus_

* * *

“I’m going to throw up.”

“Just remember—don’t lose your temper. It’ll be just like we practiced.”

“That’s not helping. I’m going to throw up.”

Darcy tightens her grip around Snape’s right forearm, her fingernails digging into the fabric of his sleeve, into his skin, their last argument forgotten as if it had never happened. It had been almost too easy to crawl back to Snape, begging for reassurance. It’s not like there was anyone else to run to, after all.

Her heart beats a violent tattoo against her chest, her stomach churning. How many times had she gone in through this door? How many different teachers had she had for Defense Against the Dark Arts? She remembers each and every single one—even Quirrel, who had turned out to have Voldemort on the back of his head, hadn’t frightened her to this point.

Snape gives her a sideways look, glancing around the empty corridor. He lowers his voice and puts his lips close enough to her ear to make Darcy shudder. “I’ve given her what she _thinks_ is Veritaserum,” Snape whispers. “Do not be afraid to drink what she gives you. It will only make the whole thing more convincing.”

“Telling me right outside her door that she wanted to use a truth potion on me is not making me feel any better,” Darcy says, clenching and unclenching and clenching again on his arm. “Tell me I’ll be fine. Tell me I’m going to walk in your classroom afterwards completely fine.”

“You’ll be fine,” Snape repeats, prying her fingers off his arm. He places a hand on her shoulder, pushing her towards the door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom. “ _Go_.”

Darcy looks once more over her shoulder at Snape before entering the classroom. She hasn’t done very much in here—the blackboard still hasn’t been cleared from her last class, and some of the shelves are adorned with colorful flowers in pretty planters. Darcy makes her way to the back office, as she has so many times before, and raises her hand to knock lightly.

“Come in.”

Umbridge’s voice is sweet and high-pitched, just as it had been during the start of term feast. Darcy lets herself into the office, thrown off momentarily at the sight of it. The desktop is covered in lace and doilies, disgusting curtain adorn the windows—curtains Darcy thinks she might find in Aunt Petunia’s home—and pictures of vile looking kittens cover the walls. She thinks, briefly, that she’d rather the many pictures of Lockhart he’d put up while he taught. At least they smiled at her, winked at her, were relatively nice to look at for a time—these kittens remind her of Mrs. Norris, not a pleasant comparison. She seats herself in the chair opposite Umbridge, smiling politely at her, taking in her ugly smile, her pouch eyes, her perfectly curled brown hair.

“Professor Umbridge,” Darcy begins, flattening the front of her dress. She had made sure to wear her very best one today to make a good impression. After all, Aunt Petunia had always told her that first impressions are everything. “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. First years are very hard to shake off sometimes.”

Umbridge laughs very suddenly that makes Darcy start. Her smile and laughter does not extend to her eyes, however. “It was so very good of you to join me today, Miss Potter. Tea?”

Darcy forces herself to smile and nod. “Tea sounds lovely.” That had been Snape’s idea after the portrait to her room asked him how she liked her tea one night. The less Umbridge knows about her, the better—or so Snape had claims. She pretends not to notice Umbridge reach into her pocket for a small vial of clear liquid, pouring it into Darcy’s tea while her back is turned. Her heart starts to beat quickly again, wanting to trust Snape— _he wouldn’t have lied to me, he wouldn’t have given her real Veritaserum, or else he wouldn’t have been so worried about what I say._

When Umbridge sits back down, holding two cups of steaming tea, her smile seems to be wider than before. “Drink up, dear,” she urges, and Darcy indulges her. The tea is revolting, but she manages to drink it without cringing. Umbridge hums, pleased. “No doubt you’ve heard these nasty rumors being spread?”

Darcy doesn’t falter, but is surprised she’s jumped into it so quickly. She takes another drink of her minty tea, and Umbridge nods, eyes still fixed upon Darcy’s face. “I have.”

“The Minister says there may still be some sanity left in you,” Umbridge simpers, stirring some sugar into her tea, her little finger lifted into the air. “Sanity that has, unfortunately, escaped your brother. What say you, Darcy? May I call you Darcy?”

“Please,” Darcy answers, crossing her right leg over her left. “I prefer that you do.” She sighs exasperatedly, giving Umbridge a tired smile. “Professor, my brother is clearly traumatized. Unfortunately, none of us were in the maze when everything happened that night, nor could any of us see what was happening. The only person who could have confirmed Harry’s story returned dead under suspicious circumstances. Unless there is evidence that strongly points towards Voldemort’s return to power, I will continue to call them rumors.”

This is clearly not what Umbridge had expected. She sits quiet for a moment, taking in Darcy’s appearance. “And what do you make of these dementors your brother claimed attacked him?”

Darcy chooses her words carefully, taking another slow sip of tea. She privately hopes Umbridge doesn’t make her drink another cup. “I mean no offense, Professor, but I heard there was a witness to these events. Mrs. Figg testified during Harry’s hearing.” Darcy hesitates. “I remember seeing my cousin after it happened, and he very much looked like someone who had an encounter with a dementor. Perhaps if the matter is still unclear, I could set up a time for you or someone to meet with him?”

They look at each other for a moment. _Shut up, shut up, shut up_ , Darcy tells herself, but Umbridge says no more on the matter. “Drink,” she instructs, and Darcy does. Umbridge suddenly gets to her feet, walking slowly around the desk to approach Darcy. “What a fascinating thing you are…” she continues, her face inches from Darcy’s.

“How so, Professor?” Darcy says, hardly a whisper with how close they are.

“So young, so pretty, so talented,” Umbridge says coldly and quietly, her fat fingers touching Darcy’s cheek. “Such a shame it’s all wasted. No one in their right mind would want Darcy Potter in the Ministry of Magic anyway—I mean, not after what happened between you and that…” She smiles sweetly and stands up straight again, giggling her girlish giggle. “Beast.”

Darcy clenches her jaw. “I’m happy with where I am, Professor.”

“As an assistant to Professor Snape?” Umbridge laughs again, as if the idea is ridiculous. “Oh yes, because I’m sure that’s what every little girl _dreams_ of. Drink.”

She finishes her cup of tea, appeasing Umbridge, who hasn’t even touched hers.

“Why are you really here, Darcy Potter?”

“I enjoy potions,” Darcy answers, almost mechanically. Snape had only made her say it a hundred times. “I wanted to come back and gain some experience before making a decision on a career—”

“Did Dumbledore bring you back here?” Umbridge asks again, her voice sharp now. These are no longer innocent questions, but dangerous accusations. Darcy wonders if Umbridge realizes her potion didn’t work, or if she’s just trying to get all the answers she can before it ‘wears off’. “That’s why you’re here isn’t it? You’re one of Dumbledore’s?”

“I—” Darcy stammers stupidly, unsure of what to say. What does she mean—one of Dumbledore’s? _Does she know about the Order_? “I’m sorry, Professor?”

Umbridge remains standing on the other side of her desk, hands splayed across the top. Her thick fingers remind Darcy of Vernon, but these are covered with rings of all shapes and sizes, mostly gold with glittering gems. “Professor Dumbledore’s choice in teachers has been questionable. Bringing in dangerous half-breeds, madmen who performed illegal curses on students, and… _you_. He may have allowed you an extraordinary amount of liberty, but I am not Dumbledore, and you are no longer a student under Dumbledore’s protection.” Darcy hadn’t noticed her take it out, but Umbridge has her wand in hand now, holding it as if made of glass. “Where is the werewolf?”

“I don’t know.”

“ _Liar_ ,” Umbridge snaps. She looks almost crazed, as if this conversation is not going at all the way she’d planned. “Hands.”

“What?”

“Put your hands on the desk, Miss Potter, and do not lie to me.” Warily, Darcy rests her hands on the desktop, palms down. “Where is the werewolf?”

“I don’t know.”

Umbridge glances into Darcy’s empty teacup before flicking her wand and, while nothing physically hits Darcy, she can feel the pain in her fingers as if she’s just been caned. She begins to cry out, but bites down on her tongue to keep Umbridge from getting that satisfaction. It’s nothing worse than Vernon’s done, she tells herself. Vernon’s hit me harder. “Where is Sirius Black?”

“I don’t know.”

_WHAP_! It’s like a whip the way it strikes hard. A stinging sensation compared to an aching. Darcy’s knuckles are bright red and she bites down on her tongue so hard she draws blood. Her fingers tremble violently on the top of Umbridge’s desk. Umbridge gives Darcy a long look. “Why are you here, Potter?”

“To help teach.”

This time, whatever invisible force is slapping her knuckles breaks skin.

“I would like to remind you that I, nor the Ministry of Magic, appreciates a liar,” Umbridge tells her, her voice a soft hiss. Her falsely sweet smile is still painted on her face, her eyes cold. “It would be wise of you to take a good, long look at where your loyalties lie before it’s too late.”

Darcy doesn’t move, nor does she look away from Umbridge. “I am not a liar.”

“Your brother says the same thing,” Professor Umbridge whispers. “And liars deserve to be… _punished_.” With a last appraising look at her, she giggles, clearing her throat. “I think we’re finished here. Please think on what I’ve said.”

Nodding slightly, Darcy gets to her feet, trying to ignore her throbbing fingers. “Thank you for the tea, Professor Umbridge.” She gives a slight curtsey and a very forced smile and walks out of the office, through the classroom, and as soon as the door shuts, panic floods her. Darcy’s heart pounds in her chest, echoing in her head, her pulse pounding in her ears. She runs— _runs_ —as fast as she can, her fingers numb, blood leaking down her long fingers. She runs around a corner, down a staircase, around another corner, running into someone who grabs her arms tight. She begins to scream, jumpy after her encounter with Umbridge, but a hand clamps down hard over her mouth.

“Darcy—Darcy! It’s me—”

Darcy stops struggling and Snape lowers his hand from her mouth. She looks up into his face, her chest heaving, her body shaking. Slowly, Darcy holds up her hands, the tears coming unbidden. Snape furrows his brow, putting a hand on her back to lead her quickly back to the dungeons.

“Sit,” he says when they enter the chilly classroom.

She sits at the front table as Snape retreats into his personal stores, returning with Murtlap essence. He brings it beside her, taking a seat and setting down the potion, a deep bowl, and a washcloth. “I did everything you said,” Darcy whispers. “I said everything I was supposed to say, I swear it.”

Snape hesitates, reaching out for her hands, but drawing back at the last second. They lock eyes and Darcy can’t remember ever looking at him for such a long time this close before. Darcy swallows hard, wiping her cheek with her shoulder, and holds her hands out to reveal her knuckles. Extending her fingers, Snape takes her hands in his gently, his thumbs brushing over her bruising knuckles. Darcy flinches, letting out a pained gasp when his skin touches them.

Still holding her left hand with his right, Snape pours the potion into the bowl with his other hand, reaches for the cloth, dipping it into the solution. He washes away the drying blood, soothing the ache in her knuckles, and when he finishes with her left hand, moves onto her right.

“Put your hands in here for a few minutes,” he says, nodding towards the bowl. As soon as the liquid touches her knuckles, the pain eases tenfold. “Better?”

Darcy nods slowly, unable to look away from him. She wonders why Snape hasn’t asked her what happened—she wonders why he isn’t accusing her of anything, of claiming it was likely her fault. “I shouldn’t have said those things the other night,” she says quietly, finally looking away, at her hands in the bowl. “I shouldn’t have hit you.”

Snape doesn’t answer. His eyes slowly fall to her hands.

“Sometimes I feel you’re the only true friend I have here,” she confesses. “You’re the only person who’s ever completely honest with me.” Darcy sighs, blushing furiously. “Professor Dumbledore said we shouldn’t fight.”

“Dumbledore has said a great many things you’ve chosen to ignore.”

She frowns. She should have known Snape couldn’t be kind about it. Her eyes snap back to his to give him a burning look, but Darcy softens at the sight of his face.

It’s a weak one, an ugly one, more of a grimace than anything, as if he’s never attempted it before—but he’s smiling.

* * *

“ _Please_ , Darcy—Hermione’s busy with homework and making those hats—”

Darcy stops abruptly in the middle of the corridor. “What hats?”

Ron looks pleased to indulge her. “She’s been knitting hats for house-elves and putting them under trash so they pick them up and don’t even notice—” He looks annoyed, but continues his first sentiment. “And Harry’s in detention, and—”

“Fine, fine, fine. Let’s go.” Darcy had been about to go down to Hogsmeade, preparing to leave for Grimmauld Place. She already has all of her things with her—her bag is slung over her shoulder, her jacket buttoned up to her chin, exhausted and ready to relax on the sofa in Sirius’s drawing room…ready to see Lupin again for the first time in a week.

But now, instead of going back to Grimmauld Place, Ron and Darcy are making their way down to the Quidditch Pitch for Keeper tryouts. This only makes her think again about Oliver Wood. He had been a phenomenal Keeper, always the soul of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Darcy hasn’t had much time to even consider reaching out to him with all that had happened since she met with Gemma on Tuesday.

There’s seven people trying out for Keeper, and when Ron notices that, his face turns green. Darcy ruffles his hair and kisses his head, making his ears turn bright red as he takes a spot with the other players. Darcy wanders off to find a place alone, dropping her bag down and stretching out.

As tryouts begin, Darcy quite glad she’s come. She hasn’t realized how much she missed Quidditch last year—though, it had been the last thing on her mind given the circumstances surrounding the Triwizard Tournament. But Quidditch isn’t the only thing on her mind; she has an entire week to think about, to sulk and brood as she pleases without anyone around to bother her. The most pressing issue being Umbridge.

Umbridge had made a direct threat to her. _You are no longer under Dumbledore’s protection_. Yes, she had made it very clear that Darcy’s fate would not be determined by Dumbledore, or by Snape, but by herself—by the Ministry of Magic. Darcy had told Snape everything that had been said during their meeting, leaving out no details and not a single word, and Snape had not been happy. But they both agreed on one thing—Dumbledore could not know. When that had been established, Darcy had known exactly why Harry didn’t want her to tell anyone about his lines for detention.

She knows Umbridge is waiting for it—knows that Darcy will likely run to Dumbledore. That’s what Umbridge wants—but Darcy refuses. She’s sure Dumbledore would be furious, prompting more Ministry kickback than he’s already getting. If something were to happen to Dumbledore, what would happen to her? Darcy doesn’t want Umbridge to think she has any power over her just because of some bleeding knuckles. She will not submit to that foul woman.

The first Keeper to tryout does a fair job, only letting in a few goals, but flying very well. As the second Keeper flies up to the goalposts, the broomstick promptly flips and he hanging upside down, the broom between his legs. Darcy looks away, towards the castle, frowning.

There’s something else that weighs on Darcy, as well—something she hadn’t really thought about, nor had the time to. Gemma had _kissed_ her in Hogsmeade. Granted, the two of them had been pretty drunk, but Darcy isn’t sure what was meant by it. The last thing she wants to do is drive Gemma away because she’d made it awkward. But the thought of Oliver Wood has lodged in her brain. _He asked about me_. It makes her heart race.

_Are you so starved for affection that you would actually seek out Oliver Wood?_

Darcy shakes the thought off. She doesn’t want anyone except Lupin…who she’s going to be seeing in just a little bit…if Ron hadn’t begged her to come…

Friday nights used to be her favorite nights. She’d arrive at Lupin’s and smother him in kisses all night, curl up in his arms before falling asleep for the first time in days. Now, Darcy will be with him, but unable to pepper his face with sweet kisses, and she’ll have to retire to a different bed at night. Why hadn’t she stayed with him that last night before term? Why had she so stupidly refused?

_I wouldn’t have left. I would have stayed._

Ron’s tryout is third, and Darcy’s rather impressed. While not the best flier, he still manages to save nearly all of the goals the Chasers throw at him. But he has potential, and once he finishes, Darcy runs down to greet him. “You’re great,” she smiles, and Ron flushes again, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah…well…”

“I’ve got to go, all right?” Darcy pats his head. He’s nearly eye level with her. “Tell me first thing Monday morning the outcome.”

Ron bids her goodbye from the stands and Darcy nearly races down the road towards Hogsmeade. As soon as she is able, she Disapparates with a _CRACK_! and Darcy has gone—gone _home_. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I just want to thank everyone for their feedback! It means so much to me! Order of the Phoenix is definitely one of my favorite books/movies, so I’m definitely having fun with this. Happy Halloween :^)

“Nice of Emily to leave us this stuff, wasn’t it?”

“Did she leave it _for_ us, or did she just forget it? Is she going to kill us when she finds out we’ve ruined her canvases?”

As Gemma sorts through the many tubes and bottles of paint, she shrugs. “If she needs more, I’ll buy them. Do you have red? I’ll need it for your hair.”

Darcy passes Gemma the red paint, looking at her blank canvas. She’s never been very artistic—when she was younger, she and Emily used to paint sometimes during the summer, but Darcy hadn’t actually been good. Emily had always been the artist, always creative and eager to get paint on her hands and face and in her hair.

Whether purposefully or not, however, Emily has left most of her art things at Grimmauld Place—pallets and canvases, paints and brushes, pencils and stained blouses. It had been Gemma’s idea to set up in the drawing room, before a roaring fire with a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of sweet wine. Sirius and Lupin play a slow game of chess off to the side, occasionally glancing at the two girls. Darcy’s quite glad for a distraction—one that isn’t sleeping, chess, reading, or bathing. Anything to keep her mind from wandering back to the events of the previous week, which she knows she will have to relive soon, because surely someone will ask her how her week at Hogwarts has been.

“I’m shit at drawing,” Darcy mutters, sketching an outline of Gemma face with the pencil her right hand and holding a cigarette in her left. “It’s going to look bad.”

“I’m sure it won’t be any worse than the portrait of Sirius’s mother,” Gemma smiles, and she looks over her shoulder to give Sirius a warm look. Sirius looks half-amused, nodding his head in agreement.

“That portrait is actually very good,” Darcy says, frowning.

“Maybe,” Gemma replies, picking up a pencil and looking hard at Darcy from around the side of her canvas. “But yours won’t scream, nor will it be of such a horrible woman. How could any painting of _me_ be awful?”

“Please don’t make me look ugly,” Darcy begs, trying to sketch Gemma’s short hair.

Gemma laughs with her cigarette wedged between her lips, still looking at Darcy, sizing her up, one of her eyes closed. Finally, she looks back to her canvas and puts her cigarette down in an ashtray to mix some of her paints together on the pallet. “I won’t make you ugly, I promise,” Gemma answers, raising her eyebrows. “Now—would you like me to paint the bruises on your knuckles, or no?”

Darcy blushes hard, feeling everyone’s eyes suddenly snap to her hands. The bruises aren’t necessarily terrible, and a few small cuts are spread here and there, but the pain has subsided for the most part. She doesn’t know why she hasn’t told anyone how the bruises came to be, as much as she wants to. She knows if Lupin and Sirius know the truth, they’ll likely go straight to Dumbledore about it, however. “It’s none of your business,” she snaps, but it’s too late—Sirius has leapt of the sofa and onto the floor, taking the pencil and cigarette out of her hands to inspect her knuckles closely.

“Did Snape do this to you?” Sirius asks harshly, prompting Darcy to pull her hands away. His face is contorted with rage.

“No,” Darcy hisses. “Snape’s never hit me and he never would. You’re being cruel, Sirius.”

“Right, I suppose he’d just hex you instead of hit you?” Sirius asks, and there’s an exasperated sigh from Lupin. “You need to tell me if he did this.”

“He didn’t,” she growls, huffing impatiently and turning back towards her canvas. She reaches for a paintbrush and Sirius scowls at her. “Can you go away, please?”

“Come on, Darcy,” Gemma sighs, putting her pencil down and picking up her pallet. “It’s just us here. Tell us what happened.”

Darcy lifts her eyes to look at Lupin, still seated on the sofa. He clenches his jaw, grinding his teeth. His eyes flick from her knuckles to her eyes. “It’s none of your business,” she says again, dipping her brush in brown paint and beginning to color Gemma’s hair.

“How was your meeting with Umbridge?” Gemma asks again, and Darcy gives her a withering stare, poking her head about her canvas. She wonders if Gemma knows more than she’s letting on, or if she’s just being her usual, annoyingly observant self. “That was yesterday, wasn’t it? What did she say?”

The drawing room goes quiet again except for the crackling fire. “It was fine,” Darcy lies. “She just wanted to ask about Snape’s classes.”

“Why are you lying, Darcy?” There’s a crease between Lupin’s knitted brows, clearly unconvinced. His tone is hard and accusing, and Darcy hesitates, looking away from him and continuing her painting. “Did she do that to you?”

“I said, it’s none of your business,” Darcy snarls.

“I think it’s very much my business,” Lupin protests. “If Umbridge is hurting you inside Hogwarts, someone needs to know. Dumbledore would never allow you to suffer such harm in his school if he knew of this.”

“Who do you think you are, assuming my business is yours? You forfeited that right when you walked out on me.” Darcy empties her hands, growing frustrated. She gives Gemma a dangerous look, angry that she’d even brought her bruised knuckles to light, and then looks back to Lupin.

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to ignore your hurts, Darcy,” Lupin counters angrily. “How could you think I’d stand by and do nothing about this? Someone needs to put a stop to it.”

“He’s right,” Sirius adds, putting on the sternest and firmest voice he can muster. “You need to tell Dumbledore—or I will.”

“No, you won’t.” Darcy looks right into Sirius’s cold, gray eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

“You’re my goddaughter, and it’s my job to take care of you, and if there is a teacher at Hogwarts torturing you, then someone needs to be told so we can put a stop to it.”

“I’ve already told Snape what happened, and we’re dealing with it,” Darcy tells them all, in a tone that brooks no argument. “So, if you would all please just shut up, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“You told Severus?” Lupin asks, scrunching his nose as if disgusted with something. “You told Severus and you won’t tell us?”

“Why not?” Darcy asks, trying to sound casual about it, as if she and Snape hadn’t shared a very intimate moment after her meeting with Umbridge—or, as intimate a moment that she and Severus Snape were likely ever going to have. “I work with and for him. He has a right to know what’s going on. It happens to _be_ his business.”

“When has Severus ever cared about what’s happened to you? When has he ever, for a second, recognized you for you and not your mother?” Lupin scowls again, his features turning suddenly wolf-like, but Darcy doesn’t falter. “When has he ever said anything to you that has not been intended to mock, insult, or belittle you?”

“Just because I don’t tell you he says kind things, doesn’t mean that it doesn’t happen,” Darcy retorts, anger surging through her. “My relationship with Snape is absolutely none of your business, and you have absolutely no say over what I decide to tell him.”

“I just find it curious that you refuse to tell us—some of the people who care about you most—but you’ll tell him?”

“Ooh,” Gemma smirks, turning away from her canvas to look over her shoulder at Lupin. “Jealous, Lupin?”

Darcy knows that Gemma’s only trying to make things better now, trying to make Darcy smile and feel better—but it’s working. The idea that Lupin could possibly be so jealous of Snape lights a fire in her stomach. What would he say if he knew Oliver Wood had asked Gemma about her? What would he say if he knew she’d been thinking of him? What would Lupin say if he knew that Gemma had kissed her? Judging by the look on Gemma’s face, Darcy has a feeling she knows Lupin would be jealous.

_No, I will not stoop to that level. When has that ever worked out for me before?_

“Not jealous,” he says slowly, tearing his gaze from Darcy back to the chessboard. “Just concerned.” He picks at the front of his sweater lazily, trying hard to avoid anyone’s eye.

Sirius isn’t so submissive, however. When Darcy looks at him again, his disgust is written plain across his face. He looks incredulous, astounded, as if Darcy talking to Snape is something unheard of. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice venomous. “I’m going to have to side with Remus here. You’re going to confide in Snape and not tell your own godfather what’s going on? Don’t I deserve to know?”

“Didn’t you hear her?” Gemma says quickly, brushing red paint all over her canvas. “She doesn’t want to talk about it, so why don’t you drop it?”

“I’m only saying,” Sirius grumbles, getting back to his feet. “Sounds like you’re hiding more from us than what happened to your hands.”

Darcy continues to paint, never going to reveal what had happened between she and Snape—not as long as she can help it. “I’m not.”

She and Lupin meet eyes again for a split second, and just from the single look, Darcy knows that it isn’t over.

* * *

The fire makes Darcy sleepy—or maybe part of it has to do with the amount of wine she’d drunk. Her eyes grow heavy, each blink lasts longer than the previous one. Her cheek, settled so comfortably on Gemma’s stomach, freshly-painted nails being dragged lazily through her auburn hair while her friend reads silently. Darcy stretches out on the sofa between Gemma’s legs, half of her hanging off the side of the arm; the sofa isn’t really meant to fit two people very comfortably in this position. In the corner of the drawing room are the portraits she and Gemma had painted. They aren’t very good—Gemma’s picture of Darcy is not necessarily ugly, but she’s painted an unfamiliar girl with bright red hair and bright green eyes. Darcy’s painting isn’t any better, but Gemma had loved it all the same.

She used to relish this with Lupin, her ear to his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart. He would always run his fingers through her hair, reading outloud to her from whatever book had been nearest them that night, and he’d continue to read until she fell asleep. And sometimes other things would be involved—not so innocent touches that Darcy doesn’t dare attempt with Gemma underneath her. She closes her eyes and can’t help but to imagine those nights—a light fingertip tracing slow patterns on the front of his trousers, hearing his breathing growing more and more ragged the harder she touched him, until finally he’d pull her closer and kiss her hard—

“Gemma,” Darcy says, and Gemma hums, not bothering to put down her book. “You never told me about what happened at the gala. Do your parents still want you to marry?”

“Of course they do,” Gemma answers. “Only problem is, there aren’t a lot of sons lining up to get married. For one, most of them aren’t even out of school yet, and the ones who are have been promised to other girls since birth.”

Darcy turns her head, resting her chin upon Gemma’s stomach. “That must be horrible,” she whispers. “I can’t imagine growing up and knowing that, once you’re out of school, you have to marry some…”

“Prejudiced, cruel, selfish son of Death Eaters?” Gemma sighs, lowering her book to smile at Darcy. Her fingers continue to rake through her hair gently, lovingly. “Not all of the boys are bad. There were a few cute ones I wouldn’t have minded. There was one boy even prettier than you, Darcy.”

“What was his name?”

“Dalton,” she grins. “Isn’t that such a pretty name? He complimented my dissertation before telling me that werewolves don’t deserve our help.”

Darcy frowns. “He sounds like Umbridge.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened with her?”

“Of course I’m going to tell you,” she replies airily. “I just didn’t want to tell Sirius and Remus.”

“I _do_ love you, my little lion,” Gemma chuckles, returning to her book. She pulls her fingers away from Darcy’s hair to turn her page. Darcy rests her cheek against Gemma’s stomach again. “Who would have thought, years ago when I first met you, that I—the daughter of some Death Eaters—would eventually be in this position with _the_ Darcy Potter?”

“When did we become best friends anyway?” Darcy asks, laughing softly.

“The day in the bath, when you decided to tell me that you fucked Lupin.” Gemma lowers her book again. “Sound about right?”

“Yeah, sounds about right.” They both giggle for a moment, the memory of them sitting in the bath swapping secrets and stories seeming a lifetime ago. “Do you ever think he’ll ever have me back?”

“Darcy, I think if you walk up to him right now and kiss him, he wouldn’t object in the slightest.” Gemma yawns, dragging her fingers through Darcy’s hair again. “Maybe we should just run away together. You and me.”

Darcy smiles weakly. “I’d like that. Max could come with us.”

“I think I’d want a dog,” Gemma says thoughtfully. “Carla had one, you know? I’ve been to her house a few times. It’s a big, fluffy dog—sheds like mad. I came home looking half a werewolf myself.”

“The only dog I ever knew was Marge’s dog—you know, the aunt Harry blew up that one summer?” Darcy pauses as Gemma cackles. “A bulldog. It bit me once, you know. I had to have stitches.”

“Stitches? What are those?”

“You know…like…stitches. You don’t know what stitches are?”

“Am I supposed to know what stitches are?”

Darcy grunts, unable to keep herself from laughing. “I had an open wound—like, a small one—and the doctors had to _stitch_ my skin back up, to keep it closed.”

Gemma stares off into the distance for a moment, her eyes narrowed. She doesn’t speak for a moment, but after a comfortable silence, mutters, “Interesting.” Gemma scratches the upper part of Darcy’s back that’s accessible to her. “What’s it like, Darcy? Being in love?”

“I don’t know,” Darcy answers, her face falling. She watches the flames crack and pop in the hearth for a moment, remembering all of the nights spend with Lupin on his sofa, warming themselves by the fire. “I suppose it’s…it’s feeling safe. Like nothing can hurt you when you’re together.”

“Safety?” Gemma ponders. “Is that all?”

Darcy swallows hard, allowing her eyes to fill with tears, unashamed to cry in front of Gemma. “And—after my parents died, there was a hole in my heart that I thought would be there forever. The family I wanted—the family that was taken from me. But when I met him on the train that day, I—”

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Lifting her eyes to glance towards the doorway, Darcy blushes when she sees Lupin standing against the threshold. Gemma continues to scratch her back lightly, and Darcy looks back into the fire. “No,” Gemma tells him. “We’re just talking.”

Lupin stands up straight. “Darcy, could I have a word?”

“So formal…you’d think we were back at school.” Gemma snickers, sitting up when Darcy pushes herself off her stomach. “I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll be up in a minute.”

Gemma leaves the drawing room first, pushing past Lupin and stretching as she makes her way up the stairs. Once the house is silent again, Lupin closes the door of the drawing room, taking a few, slow steps inside. Darcy sits cross-legged on the sofa, watching him pace, knowing what he’s going to ask before he even asks it.

“What happened, Darcy?”

Darcy hesitates. The boldness with which he’s asked the question—so confident that he’ll hear the truth—irritates her. “If I tell you, I want to ask you a question, then.”

Lupin raises his eyebrows, pausing in front of the fire, his hands deep in his pockets. He nods. “What happened with Umbridge?”

After another lengthy pause, Darcy tells him exactly what happened in her office just yesterday, but leaves out what happened afterwards when she’d run into Snape again. When she finishes, Lupin lets out a string of curses, calling her names Darcy has never heard him call anyone. He touches her hands, looking closely at her knuckles before pacing restlessly around the room again.

“And what did Severus say?” Lupin asks again. Darcy silently damns him for knowing her so well. “When he say what had happened?”

“He—” Darcy shifts uncomfortably upon the sofa. “He cleaned them—they were bloody—and he gave me some potion to take the sting away.”

“He cared for you.”

They look at each other for a long time. “He did.”

Lupin licks his lips, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Go on, Darcy. What’s your question?”

Truthfully, she hadn’t prepared one, only wanted something in return for answering his question. Darcy thinks for a moment. She wants to ask him several things— _will you kiss me? Will you love me? Will you hold me? Can I be yours forever again?_ But Darcy doesn’t think it’s really an appropriate time to ask any of those, and she doesn’t know that he’ll respond as kindly as he did last time she’d been desperate enough to nearly beg for him. “I—I don’t know.”

He smiles weakly, chuckling. “You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Darcy snaps, and Lupin laughs again when she blushes. “I just don’t have any questions right now.”

Lupin nods again, rubbing his face. “Darcy,” he says gently. The sound of her name rolling off his tongue still makes her knees weak. “I don’t know that you’ll be seeing as much of me in the next few months.”

“What do you mean? Where are you going? You’re not—I mean, you aren’t leaving?”

He shakes his head. Darcy purses her lips, noticing that he has some trouble meeting her eyes. “I’m not leaving,” he promises. Lupin sighs heavily. “Can I sit?”

“Yes—yes, of course.” Darcy moves over, allowing him more space on the sofa. It’s queer, she thinks, having so much distance between them. She wants to reach out and take his hand, to have him fuss over her and kiss her hurts.

“It’s time I’ve become more involved with the Order,” he explains quietly, his body turned to face her. “All this sitting around, alone with my thoughts, it’s not good for me. And…” Lupin runs a hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his neck, squirming like a thirteen-year-old boy. “It’s hard to be here with you.”

“Oh.” Darcy deflates, her heart sinking. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing you did,” he quickly assures her, looking even more uncomfortable and awkward. “This is _your_ home, not mine. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable in your own home because I don’t know when to leave.”

Darcy opens her mouth and closes it almost immediately. _Ever the gentleman, even after breaking my heart_ , she thinks. “You don’t make me uncomfortable,” she finally replies. “This is your home too, if you’ll have it. I wouldn’t drive you out of your own home…not when Hogwarts is waiting for me.”

_Hogwarts_ , she tells herself. _Hogwarts is no longer my real home. A place where I am Dumbledore’s prisoner—not allowed to resign, not allowed to live here, with Sirius. A place where my brother is tortured and, if Umbridge is not satisfied by my role, I’ll be tortured, as well_. But that’s exactly why she must go back. Let Umbridge torture her all she wants—but she will keep Harry safe. Without her around, what could happen?

Darcy notices concern etched deeply in the premature lines on his face. His eyebrows furrowed together, as if looking at her for the first time. “What?” she asks. “Is there something on my face?”

“Is there anything you wouldn’t do for Harry?”

Though his question takes her by surprise, the answer comes easy to Darcy. “No.” She exhales through her long nose, shrugging her shoulders. “If you thought my answer would be anything other than that, then you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

“You’re going to subject yourself to this woman’s punishments willingly? All for the sake of being with Harry?” Lupin asks, incredulous, disbelieving. “Darcy, what happens when it goes too far just one time?”

Her heart quickens. “You say you would die for your friends,” she whispers. “I would do the same for mine, without question, without hesitation. I told you nearly two years ago that I would die if it meant Harry could live. I meant it—every word.”

Lupin shakes his head very slowly, seemingly disturbed by her words. “I can’t lose you.”

Darcy’s stomach flutters with pleasure, but she stands up and brushes off the front of her shirt. “I’m not yours to lose.”


	19. Chapter 19

“Can you grab me that bottle there, darling?”

Darcy grabs hold of the bottle of firewhisky without thinking, suddenly hesitating. She releases it and looks over her shoulder at her godfather. “It’s eight in the morning.” Her eyes scan the plate in front of him, a piece of toast with a few bites taken out of it. “Why don’t I make you breakfast?”

Instead of answering, Sirius mutters under his breath, pushing his chair away from the table. He walks over to Darcy, grabbing the bottle and bringing it back to his seat at the table. She turns her back on him, stirring her coffee. Perhaps it’s not her place to say anything more—after all, she’d been relatively heavy on the drink lately, too, and Snape has been sure to bring it to her attention every time he catches a whiff of it.

Finally, Darcy wanders over to the table, watching Sirius pour a decent amount of firewhisky into a glass. “Can I join you?”

“Where’s Gemma?”

“St Mungo’s.” Darcy takes a sip of coffee. “I think I’ll just...I’ll be in my room, then.”

“No,” Sirius says quickly, holding up a hand to stop her, sighing. “I’m sorry, Darcy. Come here.”

She sits beside him, frowning. Sirius touches her hair, kissing her forehead. Darcy closes her eyes, the warmth from his hand on her face warming her bones, her heart, her soul. Nuzzling into his palm, Darcy tries to remember anything she can from when she was just a little girl, tries to remember any memory with Sirius in it that’s a happy memory. “Give me the bottle, Sirius,” she whispers, opening her eyes as his hand falls back into his lap. “You don’t need it.”

Sirius doesn’t reply, only looks at her with that damn pathetic hangdog expression. It amazes her how a single look can break her heart into a million pieces, a look that shows her the true face of a broken man. Even now, about two years since he’d broken out of Azkaban, the effects of his imprisonment are still there, and likely always will be. Sirius had barely been older than her when he’d been taken away. It frightens her to think that, if Umbridge decides she tires of her, Darcy will be subjected to that same fate. And how would she get out? It’s not as if she can transform into a dog. She would be stuck there with the dementors, until her awful memories drove her insane. And if she’s being honest with herself, she’d never last more than two weeks. Even without dementors bringing forth the worst parts of her life, she loses herself to them most days—unable to forget, being forced to relive those memories most nights...Azkaban would surely kill her.

“Sirius, I’m afraid,” she breathes, wishing for a shot of firewhisky in her coffee, but not wanting to be a hypocrite. “What if Umbridge—what if the Ministry— puts me into Azkaban?”

Anger flashes in Sirius’s eyes and Darcy suddenly regrets asking him such a thing. She had thought Sirius would be the perfect person to have around, to confide in her fears and worries, but she’s sure the wound of his imprisonment is still very fresh in his mind. It makes her feel insensitive and childish just asking the question. “I will never allow anyone to take you from me again, Darcy,” Sirius answers, and while his face is hard, his voice is surprisingly gentle. “Certainly never to Azkaban.”

“Do you promise?”

Sirius nods.

To Darcy’s own surprise, she begins to cry. Sirius shushes her quietly, wiping her tears. “I wish my dad was here.” She cries for a moment, taking Sirius’s hands and lowering them from her face. “I just need to know that I’m enough—for Harry, for you—”

“Darcy, you’re more than enough for me,” Sirius says with a weak smile. “Having you here again...it’s all I dreamed of while I was in Azkaban. James would be so proud of you, and all you’ve done for Harry.”

Darcy smiles, wiping her own tears on her shoulder. “Am I like him? Dad?”

Sirius laughs softly. “Some days,” he answers. “Others, you remind me of your mother.” He traces the lip of his glass with his index finger. “You were James’s pride and joy. All he ever spoke of most days. I regret he didn’t have as much time with Harry.”

“I miss them so much, Sirius.”

“We all do,” he frowns. Sirius looks her over critically, before a grin splits his face, startling Darcy. “You look like James.”

“Mad-Eye said the same thing.” Darcy blushes, swelling with pride.

“Here,” Sirius says again, as if he’s just remembered something, reaching into the pocket of his robes and pulling out a yellowed and folded piece of parchment. “Mad-Eye gave me something the other day. I wanted to show you.”

“What is it?”

Sirius shifts his chair a little closer and he unfolds the parchment, smoothing it out on the table. It turns out to be a photograph of several people—many of which make Darcy’s heart jump in her throat. In the front row, Darcy’s eyes land first on her mother. She’s smiling in the picture, her red hair barely falling below her collarbones, so young and childlike and so innocent looking. Beside her is James—handsome and grinning, his chin held high and his face so like Darcy’s. And on James’s other side is Sirius, so handsome and still a boy, nothing like the man sitting at Darcy’s side.

So many others are in the picture besides them—Lupin, nearly a head taller than anyone else and looking much more alive than Darcy’s ever seen him; Peter Pettigrew, looking twitchy and watery-eyed; Mad-Eye Moody, looking much less grizzled and hardened, his magical eye rolling sickeningly; a woman with a face that looks suspiciously like Neville Longbottom’s; Dumbledore, his beard and hair less silvery and more a dull gray; Hagrid, face hidden beneath his bushy beard. Other witches and wizards Darcy has never seen before smiling and wave up at her, and she almost waves back down at them. She traces her mother and father’s faces with a gentle fingertip.

“The first time I remember seeing them was at Hogwarts,” Darcy breathes, not looking up from the picture. The photograph Sirius beams at her, and Lupin smiles weakly from the back row. “During fifth year, when Harry and I found the Mirror of Erised. When I saw them, I...they were so young, only a few years older than me.”

Sirius nods slowly. “We were just kids,” he tells her, looking at himself. “Just boys. We were your age in this picture.”

“Where was I?”

“Your grandparents’,” Sirius replies. “They died shortly after this was taken, however. You probably don’t remember them.”

It comes on suddenly, a wave of sickness. Looking at the photograph makes her stomach churn, bile rising in her throat. How many of those people were killed by the hands of Death Eaters, by Voldemort? How many were hunted like animals, just like her parents? How many people had Peter Pettigrew betrayed? How many had thought he was their friend?

Darcy looks away from the picture. “Put it away,” she begs. “Please. I can’t look anymore.”

* * *

“Do you remember that, Em? You were absolutely plastered—I’d be surprised if you remember that night at all.”

“I remember you pushing me into the bath with all my clothes on and then feeding me vodka as an apology,” Emily laughs. “After that...nothing.”

Darcy flips the page. “That was the first night Carla ever drank,” she smiles, pointing at one of the pictures. It’s a sweet picture, Darcy sitting in Emily’s lap in the prefect’s bath and laughing. “I felt so bad for her that night.”

“So cool you had access to the prefect’s bathroom,” Tonks muses, getting to her knees on the hard ground and looking wistfully at Darcy’s photographs. “I was never one myself, and never ran around with one, either. Should’ve though—would’ve been useful.”

“Gemma was probably the worst prefect in the history of Hogwarts. Always neglecting her duties and using it against people we hated,” Emily teases, and Gemma only lets out a bark of laughter, flipping the page again. “However...we did have a wonderful supply of alcohol to choose from whenever we wanted.”

“Ooh—who’s that, Darcy?” Tonks grins, pointing to a picture of Darcy and Oliver Wood. Her hair is raven black today, long hair pulled back into a ponytail.

Darcy blushes. “Oliver Wood,” she answers, smiling at the sight of them so friendly with each other.

“He had a crush on Darcy all seven years,” Gemma explains. “The cutest thing you’ve ever seen. Only sometimes did she indulge him, though.”

“You _used_ him, the poor thing,” Emily cuts in, but she’s smirking. “Absolutely devastated when Darcy broke up with him seventh year. Broke his heart.”

“Why did you break up with him?” Tonks asks.

There’s an awkward silence that falls over them, but Tonks doesn’t seem to notice. Gemma kindly pours Darcy a shot of firewhisky. Darcy holds onto it, clearing her throat. “I met Remus that year.” She takes her shot. “Anyway, I didn’t deserve Oliver.”

Tonks is able to make them all laugh again when she starts morphing her face into their favorite ones. Darcy and Gemma steal quick glances as they continue to smoke and refill their glasses, drinking much heavier and smoking much more than Emily or Tonks. Gemma is much more interested in the picture album as well, considering many of the later pictures are of she and Darcy. They reminisce while Emily and Tonks talk about the Ministry, gossiping about their coworkers and giggling quietly to each other.

When Darcy finally closes the photo album in her lap, Emily announces slyly, “Heard some funny rumors at the Ministry lately.” She holds out her empty glass for Gemma to refill it.

“About?” Darcy prompts.

“About you,” Emily smiles. “Word is that Dumbledore’s brought you back to recruit for his own army.”

“And who am I supposed to be recruiting? Students?” Darcy snorts, shaking her head. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Fudge is getting more paranoid by the minute,” Emily continues, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s only a matter of time really until Dumbledore is unseated from his position at Hogwarts.” The way she says it so casually makes Darcy wary. “Without Dumbledore...the Order is finished.”

“What’s Umbridge like?” Tonks asks eagerly, sitting back on her feet. “Is she Fudge’s puppet? She was a nightmare at the Ministry—I’m quite glad to be rid of her for the most part, but...I feel sorry she’s with you.”

Darcy chews the inside of her cheek, thinking carefully. “She isn’t teaching magic—just theory, according to Hermione. Now it makes sense, though...she doesn’t want anyone using magic against her, or the Ministry.”

It’s quiet for a moment as they all mull things over. After a little bit of silence, they start talking again about Hogwarts, Snape, St Mungo’s, a funny thing Mad-Eye did. Emily then starts talking quietly again to Tonks, Gemma whispers drunkenly into Darcy’s ear, and the next she looks up, it’s to find Tonks blushing furiously, Emily whispering what sounds to be words of encouragement into her ear. “Go on,” Emily breathes, throwing a glance in Darcy’s direction. “Just ask her.”

“Ask me what?” Darcy asks, too drunk to really answer anymore questions. She narrows her eyes at both girls, feeling Gemma sidle a bit closer to her. “What are you scheming?”

Tonks sighs heavily, shrugging. “It’s just...I was wondering if I might ask you something,” she begins, and Darcy cocks an eyebrow. “If you say no, I completely understand, and I won’t ask again, I—”

“What?” Darcy asks again, this time a bit suspiciously. “Just say it.”

“Well, I was wondering it it might be all right...I mean, would you mind if I...you know?”

“No,” Darcy retorts. “I don’t know. Just ask it, Tonks.”

“She wants Lupin,” Gemma says abruptly. When Tonks’s cheeks turn pink, Darcy feels her heart sink into her stomach. “She wants to know if you’d be okay with her trying to fuck him. Is that what you want, Tonks?”

Tonks turns even redder. “Not to—I mean—it wouldn’t just be that—”

“Oh.” Darcy licks her lips and looks at Emily. Emily’s lips are pursed, and she has a hard time looking Darcy in the eyes. Gemma fixes Tonks with a curious state, and Darcy feels tongue tied. “Well, I...er…”

“I know, it’s stupid,” Tonks says apologetically, looking rather embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, I mean—well, has he...you know, said anything?”

“Well, no, not really.” This makes Darcy feel a little better. “But he’s quite nice, isn’t he? And nice to look at?”

What is she even supposed to say? Darcy looks at Gemma, her eyebrows raised. Is it so selfish to not want anyone else to have Lupin? Darcy doesn’t think Tonks deserves to kiss his face, to wake beside him, to be the recipient of his sweet smiles, to know his touch and hear him call her pet names. Perhaps she’s being cruel, but then again, Lupin had made it clear he wasn’t going to have Darcy until she left Hogwarts and sorted out her priorities. _But he slept with me_ , she tells herself. _He invited me to stay the night with him. Maybe if I had, he would have remembered how much he missed it. Maybe he would have remembered how much he missed me._

But on the other hand, Lupin deserves better than Darcy, doesn’t he? Why should she keep him from another chance at happiness? If she isn’t going to leave Hogwarts, then she should have no right to interfere with who he sees. And anyway—who says Lupin even wants Tonks? _She could be anyone he wanted_ , she thinks, frowning. _Of course he’d fall in love with her. If he ever tired of her, she could just be someone else._

“I—I guess it’s all right,” Darcy says after a while, her voice hoarse and feeble. It pains her to say the words. “I mean...it’s not like we’re together.”

“Whoa, whoa, _whoa_.” Gemma holds her hands up, her tone sharp. “Uh uh—no, no, no—you can’t go after one of your friend’s ex-boyfriends! That’s like, the number one rule of girl code.” She points a finger at Emily. “You’re actually _encouraging_ this?”

“He and Darcy aren’t together anymore,” Emily protests, giving Darcy a sad look. “Tonks really likes him. Besides, Darcy had Gavin. And for the last time—you’re the only one who knows what _girl code_ is—”

“Gavin and I were friends,” Darcy snaps, scowling at Emily. “Forgive me for seeking some comfort while the Dursleys had none for me.”

Gemma growls. “Everyone knows what girl code is,” she argues. “It’s the unspoken rules good friends follow, like, ‘don’t fuck one of your friend’s ex-boyfriends’.”

Emily crosses her arms. “ _You_ certainly spend a lot of time with him. Are you sure you’ve been following those rules yourself?”

Darcy feels obligated to defend Gemma, someone she trusts completely around Lupin, someone she knows loves her very much. “Gemma would never do that,” Darcy says, and Gemma smiles pridefully at Emily. “You just can’t believe anyone would want to be friends with him because you refuse to give him a chance.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude—” Tonks starts, and although Darcy is sure Tonks didn’t mean to hurt her, it still does. “Please, I’m sorry—”

“Tonks, there are literally millions of men in the world,” Gemma counters. “Take your pick at them, but leave Lupin alone.”

“Darcy, I’m so sorry,” Tonks whispers, and Emily and Gemma continue to argue loudly.

Darcy gives her a forced smile. “No, it’s fine, really—”

Tonks tugs at Emily’s sleeve. “Maybe I should go. Walk me out?”

Emily stops bickering to nod kindly at Tonks. Shooting Gemma a look of deep distaste, she and Tonks rise from the floor of Darcy’s bedroom and leave. Darcy pushes herself to her feet, as well, to put the photo album away. Gemma flops on the bed, scoffing.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Darcy murmurs, lighting one cigarette for herself and one for Gemma. The cherry burns bright red in the dim lighting of the room. “Really, if Tonks wants to...if she likes him, then she should go for it.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Darcy. Why didn’t you stand up for yourself?”

“Well...he doesn’t want me anymore,” Darcy frowns, feeling the need to cry. Gemma puffs on her cigarette, staring up at the ceiling. “So why shouldn’t he be allowed to see other women?” The thought makes her sick to her stomach and Darcy almost vomits on her feet. The thought of Lupin touching other women, of kissing other women, of loving other women.

“Why do you let Emily walk all over you like that?” Gemma hisses, and Darcy’s taken aback by the venom in her voice. “She spent how long criticizing your relationship with Lupin, then she encourages another girl to steal him from right under you? You need to stand up for yourself.”

“I do stand up for myself,” Darcy protests. “Why are you being so mean?”

“Because if Lupin starts seeing her while all of us are still spending time together, that means we’re going to have to hang out with her, and I don’t want to hang out with Tonks.”

“She’s not that bad, Gemma. You’re being rude.”

“Yeah, well I fucking worked all day, didn’t I? I’m tired.” Gemma covers her face with her hands and groans, sitting under straight and looking at Darcy. “You’re really okay with that? You’re really okay with Tonks and him?”

“Well...no, but—” Darcy sighs, the bitter feelings of jealousy clouding her mind. “I want him to be happy. If he wasn’t happy with me, then...maybe he can be happy with Tonks.”

Gemma only snorts.

“Why does it matter so much to you, Gemma? He’s a grown man, he can make his own decisions.”

“Because I like it being the three of us, all right?” Gemma looks unabashed, but she shifts uncomfortably on the bed. “No one speaks to me at St Mungo’s unless they have to. Everyone knows who my parents are. The two of you are the only real friends I have. Don’t make me pick sides.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Darcy puts her cigarette out, hesitating before turning around and leaving the room. The entire conversation has left a bad taste in her mouth. She wishes it hadn’t been brought up at all, that Tonks would simply have the decency to stay away from Lupin. But Emily had encouraged it, had likely told Tonks to go further and further with it, and Darcy thinks she dislikes that idea even more.

Halfway down the stairs to the kitchen, Darcy flushes when Lupin is coming up the stairs. They smile awkwardly at each other, trying to get around each other and making it only more miserable and more uncomfortable. Finally, Lupin puts his hands upon her shoulders, laughing, and stepping around her.

“You smell like a pub,” he chuckles, looking over his shoulder as he climbs another few stairs. “Have you been drinking?”

“Yes,” she replies with a shrug.

“Do you need anything? Water, perhaps? A hot bath?”

Darcy flushes harder. She shakes her head and Lupin smiles, continuing his ascent, but Darcy reaches out to grab his wrist. “Remus.”

“Hm?” He turns around to face her, his eyes darting down to her fingers wrapped around his wrist. “Are you all right?”

She sighs, wanting nothing more than to kiss him. But she releases her grip on him and takes a step backwards. “It’s nothing, never mind.”

Lupin’s brow furrows. “What?”

Darcy inhales deeply, mustering as much courage as she possibly can. She takes a step closer, another step, until she’s a step above Lupin and eye level with him. He watches her curiously, his eyebrows knitted together, standing still as a statue. _He knows what I want to do_ , she tells herself. _But he isn’t objecting_.

With her heart pounding in her ears, Darcy moves slightly closer to him, close enough that she would only have to move a few inches forward to kiss him. It makes her feel braver when he doesn’t move away. “I don’t want you to go,” she whispers. “I’ll miss you too much.”

Lupin considers her for a moment. “I’ll come back, you know. I won’t be gone forever.”

“But when will I ever see you if you’re doing your best to stay away from me?”

He swallows hard, laughing weakly. “You’re making this very difficult, Darcy.”

“Sorry.” But she still inches very slightly closer, listening to the sharp intake of his breath. Darcy smiles when his eyes flick to her lips. “Are you going to kiss me? Or are you just going to think about it?”

He bites down on his lower lip, clenching his jaw and glancing around the empty stairwell. “Look, Darcy, what happened last week...I—” Lupin takes her hand in his, looking furtively at the bruises on her knuckles, brushing a thumb over them. The gesture makes Darcy’s heart beat faster. “How will I sleep at night knowing you have to go back? Back to that woman?”

_If only he knew what she did to Harry. Should I tell him?_

He lets go of her hand. “You’d be safe here.”

“I’m not staying here.” Darcy takes a step past him, back down towards the kitchen. “My place is at Hogwarts.”

She wants to stay—how _badly_ she wants to stay. But the knowledge that Umbridge had tortured Harry has made it impossible for Darcy to even consider leaving Hogwarts. Dumbledore would never let her— _Snape_ would never let her. _As long as I am with Snape, I will be safe_. But she can’t just say that to him, knowing how Lupin feels about Snape.

“She could do much worse than your knuckles, Darcy,” Lupin murmurs.

“You don’t think I know that?” Darcy snaps, but she softens after seeing the worry in his eyes. She sighs. “I’m afraid.”

“I’d be very concerned if you weren’t a little afraid,” he jests, but by the forced smile he gives Darcy, his heart isn’t really in it. Lupin seems to want to say more, but he only cups her cheek and gives it a soft pat before walking away.

* * *

Max swoops into the kitchen during breakfast Sunday morning. He drops a letter into Sirius’s lap before fluttering to Lupin’s shoulder, awaiting his treat eagerly. Lupin sighs, giving Max a few bites of sausage.

Sirius opens the letter, reading it over silently. Gemma laments tiredly over yesterday’s _Daily Prophet_ , flicking through the pages carelessly, crunching on some bacon, not giving a second thought to Max. And then, so suddenly that it startles everyone nearly out of their seats, she gasps. “Look at this!” she hisses. Darcy moves her chair closer to Gemma to read, while Lupin moves quickly around the table to read over their shoulders. Sirius lifts his eyes from the letter. “They’ve had a tip off that you’re hiding in London, Sirius!”

“It was probably Snivellus,” Sirius grumbles, not taking his eyes off the letter.

“Don’t be mean, Sirius,” Darcy snaps. “It wasn’t Snape.”

“It’s fine.” Sirius waves an impatient hand. “They don’t _really_ know where I’m hiding. It’s only a wild guess.”

“You shouldn’t have gone with us to the platform,” Lupin groans, rubbing his chin, exasperated. “You shouldn’t leave the house—wait—Gemma move your hand...just there—”

She moves her hand, revealing the article she’d been covering. Darcy narrows her eyes, reading it carefully. “Sturgis Podmore...arrested for trying to get through a top security door...why would he need to? What was he trying to get?”

“He was supposed to be escorting you to King’s Cross,” Lupin says quickly, and he and Gemma exchange a wary, lingering look. “That’s why he never showed.”

Sirius lowers the letter, looking at them all with a sly smile. “A letter from Harry,” he announces. Darcy blinks in surprise, and Max returns to her. “His scar hurt when Umbridge touched him Friday—”

“He put that in a _letter_?”

“His scar’s been hurting?”

“Give me that,” Darcy gasps, lunging over Gemma for the letter. She tears it from Sirius’s hands, reading it over. “This is pretty good, actually. I can’t see how anyone would understand. But...he never told me his scar had been hurting...wonder why? And where is Hagrid, anyway?”

Sirius tosses her a grim look. “He should have been back by now.” He and Lupin exchange a knowing look; Lupin shrugs his shoulders and Sirius’s eyes find Darcy again. “Dumbledore sent him to meet with the giants. That’s where he’s been all summer.”

Darcy clutches her chest, her heart pounding. “Giants? But why? What’s he doing?”

“During the last war, Voldemort didn’t just recruit Death Eaters,” Lupin explains from Darcy’s other side. “He had the giants, dementors...werewolves.”

“So Dumbledore has sent Hagrid to his death?” Darcy asks incredulously, looking from Lupin to Sirius and back again. “If the giants are Voldemort’s, then why is he there?”

“Because Dumbledore wants to recruit the giants before Voldemort this time,” Gemma says, folding up the paper and pushing it away. “They respect Dumbledore, and they’ll hear out what he has to say. Who better to send than a half-giant? Besides, he’s with Madame Maxime.”

“Didn’t think you could have told me this sooner?” Darcy hisses at them all. She looks back down at the letter. _He hasn’t told Sirius about what she’s done to his hand._ “Why would his scar be hurting? It only ever does this when he gets close to Voldemort. Like when Quirrel…” Darcy’s stomach churns.

“Dumbledore has had a...few theories,” Gemma says slowly, looking at Lupin curiously. “Now that Harry’s blood runs through You-Know-Who’s veins—”

“No, Gemma,” Lupin interrupts, and Gemma stops abruptly, looking away. “That’s enough.”

“Why shouldn’t she know?” Sirius asks. “She’s not a child. She can handle it.”

“You know very well why she shouldn’t know,” Lupin counters. “I’m sorry, Darcy.”

A heavy silence falls over them, an awkward one. Darcy’s heart races, the only sound in the kitchen. Darcy is stunned at the audacity—the boldness with which Lupin has shown, as if it’s his decision what she needs to know. That her friends and godfather would keep such things from her enrages her, and she sits in a stunned, stupid silence, brooding.

After a few minutes, Sirius clears his throat. “Darcy, up for a little adventure?”

Darcy fixes her godfather with a hard look.

“I could just send a letter back with you to Harry, or—” He grins. “We could pop into the fireplace in Gryffindor common room tonight.”

“Sirius, no,” Lupin sighs.

“It’s all right. Darcy can pop into the fire every so often to see who’s there, and when she sees Harry, I’ll get in, too.” Sirius holds his hands out, seemingly impressed by his own cunning. “Come on, Darcy, it’ll be fun.”

“Fine.”

Sirius has Darcy check the fire every hour. The first time she does it, Gemma has to force her head into the flames. Darcy gasps, expecting them to burn her, but instead there’s only a dizzying sensation as she’s transported to the Gryffindor common room. She’s never liked using the Floo network, and she gets a mouthful of soot. A few second year students are sitting on the sofa, but they don’t notice Darcy’s head because she pulls out right away.

The force with which she pulls her head out sends her falling backwards, grunting when she lands hard against Lupin’s chest. They all laugh, and Darcy blushes furiously when Lupin wipes some soot and ash off her cheek. “Are you all right?” he asks.

“I’ll do better next time.”

And she does. Each time Sirius fetches her to check the fire, there are always students around the fireplace, and Harry isn’t anywhere to be seen. She sees Ron crossing the common room once, and Hermione tells off a fourth year for bullying a first year, but Darcy doesn’t linger.

By the fifth hour, Gemma’s due to return to St Mungo’s. She bids everyone goodbye quickly and promises Darcy to return next weekend. The house seems lonelier once she leaves, and with the amount of waiting Sirius has done for Harry, he starts to grow irritable.

By the seventh hour, Sirius walks into the drawing room where Darcy and Lupin are playing chess, starting an argument about Snape, infuriating Darcy even further. “If you knew what he was like at school, you wouldn’t want anything to do with him,” he shouts, scowling at her.

“Don’t act innocent, Sirius.” Darcy touches her queen, looking up and Lupin and sighing upon seeing him shake her head. She touches her bishop, but he shakes his head again. She pushes her knight diagonally a few squares to take one of his pawns. “You nearly killed Snape and I still love _you_.”

“Your mother realized it,” Sirius continues loudly, his tone bitter. “And you will too. He doesn’t care about you.”

Darcy gives Lupin a withering stare across the board, on the opposite side of the sofa. “Can you _please_ make him stop?”

Lupin’s cheeks turn slightly pink, but he looks back down at the chessboard, hiding his blush from Sirius. Darcy finds it rather endearing to see a grown man blush at her command. “Leave her alone, Padfoot.” And then, as Sirius grumbles and walks out of the room, Lupin moves his queen. “Checkmate.”

The eighth hour is spent with Lupin. “Why are you hiding things from me?” she asks, furious, after Lupin makes a snide comment about Snape that pushes her over the edge. She watches him set up the chessboard again. “Why can’t you just tell me the truth?”

Lupin looks at her for only a second. “Because I want you safe, Darcy,” he rasps, sounding desperate.

“I’m safe at Hogwarts,” she says. “Professor Snape says as long as I’m with him—”

Anger flashes in Lupin’s eyes, and Darcy’s stomach stirs with a perverted sense of pleasure at his reaction. “And he has already let you get hurt once,” he snarls. He seems to realize what he’s said and how he’s said it, for he softens and drags a hand down his face. “Darcy, everything that we do here is to keep you safe. If Dumbledore doesn’t want you knowing things, it’s for that exact reason.”

Darcy waits for him to take his turn. He slides one of his pawns forward and looks up at her. “Everyone fights over me like I’m a child,” she whispers, frowning deeply. “You and Sirius do it all the time lately. Even Gemma and Emily were doing it last night.”

“What were they arguing about?” Lupin asks far too suspiciously. He strokes the beard on his face, narrowing his eyes at her. Somehow, the look on his face seems too understanding. “Why would they be treating you like a child?”

Not having expected him to ask, Darcy blushes and looks down into her lap, flattening her shorts. She tucks a leg under her, letting her other leg hang off the sofa. “No reason.”

“Have you made some secret pact? A blood bond? What is it that I can’t possibly know?” Lupin smiles at her, chuckling softly. “If you don’t tell me, it’ll keep me up at night.”

“It’s stupid,” she answers, feeling herself blush harder. Lupin’s smile grows at the sight of it, and for a moment, she feels half a student again, revealing her deep dark secrets to him over a friendly match of chess in his private rooms. “You’ll only laugh at me.”

“Darcy Potter, when have I ever laughed at you?” He tries hard to be serious, but his eyebrow is lifted, making him look ridiculous.

“Don’t act like you’ve never laughed at me before,” Darcy teases.

“Only when then situation warranted laughter,” Lupin replies. “Never at the revelation of some secret of yours.”

Darcy shakes her head, laughing as she contemplates her next move.

“I like it when you smile,” Lupin tells her softly.

She suddenly feels uncomfortably warm, chancing another glance at him. His features seem softened by the glow of the fire and the gas lamps that light the drawing room. “Flattery gets you nowhere, Professor Lupin.”

“There’s a name I haven’t heard in some time.” The look he gives her then almost makes her melt. It certainly lights a fire in her core. In a low growl, he says, “Flattery has gotten me everywhere.”

They look at each other for a long minute before Darcy looks away sheepishly. An awkward silence blankets them and they stare down at the chess pieces, shifting uncomfortably. “Where are you going? When you’re doing things for the Order?”

He considers her, likely wondering how much to reveal. When he doesn’t answer, Darcy sighs, wondering if he’ll answer anything.

“Will it be dangerous?”

“Possibly.”

“Should I worry about you?”

“You should never have to worry about me.”

Darcy smiles weakly. “Don’t be stupid. I always worry about you.” She feels confident enough to look him in the eye again, but finds it a terrible idea. As soon as she catches sight of his near golden eyes, Darcy’s heart begins to ache. “Just promise me you’ll come back.”

A small smile tugs at his lips, as if her request amuses him. “All right. I promise.”

It doesn’t make her feel any better, despite thinking it would. She leans into the sofa, resting her cheek against the scratchy cushion. “Can I tell you something?”

The chess game forgotten, Lupin picks up the board and moves it to the nearby table. Under the guise of getting more comfortable, both of them inch very slightly closer to each other. “Of course.”

Darcy wonders how much she can say before he shuts it down. She doesn’t even understand why she wants to say it—all she knows is that she wants him to know. “I miss waking up next to you.”

Lupin is quiet for a moment, digesting this information. “When this war is over,” he whispers. “Maybe we can try again.”

Darcy reaches out with a trembling hand to take his in her own. Their fingers roll together, hesitant to fully hold hands. Wherever his fingers brush hers, they make her skin burn hot. She watches their hands for a few moments, looking up to find their faces very close. “Will you think of me, wherever you go?” she asks breathlessly, trying hard not to look at his lips.

“You’re all I ever think of,” he confesses, not daring to move his face any closer. “And you? Will you think of me while you’re at Hogwarts?”

“You’re all I dream of,” Darcy says, not quite a lie—Lupin invades her dreams more than she cares to admit. “When will I see you again?”

“I don’t know.”

“The house will be quiet without you.”

“The house has been lonely without you.”

“Even with Tonks coming and going?”

Lupin scoffs, and then suddenly laughs. “Shut up, Darcy.”

And before Darcy can give an angry and offended retort, his lips are on hers and the sentiment dies in his mouth. The sensation is so sweet it’s like kissing him for the first time again. Lupin’s fingers comb through her hair, laying her back slowly down on the sofa, and when he rolls his hips against hers, Darcy is lost.

She utters quiet sounds of consent, allowing his hand to roam under her shirt, his fingertips caressing her bare stomach. It must be a dream, she thinks, but at the same time, she knows it’s wrong, they shouldn’t. _It will only make it harder. It will only make it hurt worse._ Darcy sighs against his lips when he rolls his hips again, whimpering as the feeling makes her ache.

“Darcy!” comes Sirius’s voice from just down the hall. His tone is too sweet, as if making up for arguing with her. “Come check the fire for me, sweetheart!”

Lupin breaks their kiss and pulls his hand out from under her shirt, sighing heavily at the interruption. He places soft kisses at the low neckline of her shirt and Darcy’s skin erupts with goosebumps. When he finishes, he looks up into her face, looking incredibly guilty. “I should go.”

He doesn’t move immediately to get up. The tip of his nose brushes against hers, and Darcy is so overwhelmingly in love that it’s hard to speak. “Remus?” she rasps.

“Yeah?”

Darcy wants to tell him how much he means to her, how much she loves him, but she can’t bring herself to say the words. “Nothing.”

Helping Darcy to her feet, Lupin adjusts the front of his clothes, running his hands through his hair to comb it out of his eyes. His fingers ghost over the small of her back as he leads her out of the drawing room.

He has the decency to wait for Darcy to check the Gryffindor common room. It’s still packed with students, and Lupin asks her to walk him to the door. He wraps a traveling cloak around his shoulders, smiling down at her. She brushes off the imaginary dust, adjusting the clasp at his neck.

“See you around, Darcy.”

Darcy takes one of his hands, squeezing gently. And then, feeling even more brave after what they’ve just done, she stands on her toes and presses a soft kiss to his scruffy cheek. “See you around.”

Lupin’s fingers slide slowly from her hand as he leaves her standing there, hoping he’ll come back.

It takes a few more hours for Darcy to catch Harry, Hermione, and Ron alone. Harry looks bewildered at the sight of his sister’s face in the fire, but she huffs impatiently.

“Finally!” she scolds them, and Ron frowns, affronted. “Been checking every hour for you three!” Darcy’s eyes fall on Ron. “Did you make the team?”

Looking sheepish, Ron answers, “Yeah.”

“Excellent. Knew you would.”

“You didn’t do this just to find out whether or not Ron made the team, did you?” Hermione asks, getting on her hands and knees beside Harry. “Are you Flooing from... _you-know-where_?”

“Yeah,” Darcy says. “And I’ve got someone who wants to say hello.”


	20. Chapter 20

Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s eyes flick back and forth from Darcy to Sirius, cheek to cheek. The fireplace, while seemingly very large, is a tight squeeze with two peoples’ faces in the flames. Hermione chews her cheek, throwing Darcy a guilty and disapproving look, but Darcy doesn’t need to hear it. She already knows it’s a risky idea, but as long as no sees them, she can’t see the harm in a few minutes in the Gryffindor common room’s fire.

Besides, she reasons, it makes Sirius happy.

“All right, Harry,” Sirius begins, and Harry nods slightly, leaning closer to the flames. He almost seems a completely different man despite the seriousness of the subject—after waiting all day to speak face to face with Harry, Darcy imagines Sirius is beyond excited. “About your scar—Dumbledore isn’t particularly worried about it. Now he’s back, it’s bound to hurt more often.”

“So you don’t think it’s because of Umbridge?” Harry asks, almost hopefully.

Sirius shifts in the flames, his scratchy cheek rubbing hard against Darcy’s. She hisses at him, eliciting a muttered apology. “She’s no Death Eater,” he finally answers. “Anyway, Darcy says Umbridge isn’t teaching you any magic. Is this true?”

Ron groans. “All we do is read that stupid textbook.”

Giving them all a grim look, Sirius shrugs his shoulders to no effect. The gesture isn’t visible through the fire. Feeling his shoulder bump against hers is a queer feeling, and Darcy feels very vulnerable with more than half her body unprotected, out in the open, ass in the air. “Our information is that Fudge doesn’t want you trained in combat. It’s one of the reasons they’re so wary about Darcy returning to Hogwarts.”

Harry sits in a stunned silence for a moment, taking in this information. “What? They think that Darcy’s forming some sort of wizard army?”

“Of course,” Sirius replies, as if this is common knowledge. “They think Dumbledore is building a private army to take on the Ministry of Magic, with Darcy at the head. You can see the appeal—the perfect way to discredit Darcy now that they can’t exactly lean on their usual ‘half-breed lover’ remarks.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” Ron snaps defiantly. Darcy raises her eyebrows, smiling at him. “If Dumbledore really wanted Darcy to head his wizard army, wouldn’t he have just given her the Defense Against the Dark Arts job? Your classes would be loads better than Umbridge’s.”

“Thanks, Ron,” Darcy replies, swelling with pride. “But don’t you think it would have been suspicious to place me in that position after the events of last summer? Plus, I’m only nineteen. We’ve never had a teacher that young before. And the fact that the job is said to be cursed...no thanks.”

“Sirius, what’s Hagrid been up to?” Harry asks suddenly, and both Ron and Hermione inch closer, waiting for an answer. “Why isn’t he back yet?”

“He should have been back by now,” Sirius says. “But Dumbledore isn’t worried! I’m sure Hagrid is fine. Don’t ask too many questions—it’ll draw attention to the fact he’s gone.”

“As if it’s not already obvious a half-giant is missing,” Ron murmurs, exchanging a look with Hermione behind Harry’s back.

“Forget that,” Sirius interrupts. “When’s your next Hogsmeade weekend? I could meet up with you as a dog…it worked on the platform—”

Darcy opens her mouth to protest, but Harry and Hermione speak first. “Sirius, no!”

Attempting to turn her face towards Sirius’s, Darcy finds it a difficult thing. The best she can get is to crane her face very slightly, her lips nearly touching his cheek. “Remus said you shouldn’t leave the house again, Sirius,” she warns him, as if mention of Lupin will suddenly change Sirius’s mind. Darcy hasn’t failed to notice how submissive he’s been when Lupin talks him down from something stupid, and she wishes Lupin were here now to talk some sense into him. “It’s dangerous, and the _Daily Prophet_ got that tip about you being in London.”

“I told you, they don’t _really_ know where I am,” Sirius growls at her, getting soot into Darcy’s mouth. “They’re always guessing.”

“Darcy’s right, Sirius,” Hermione adds quickly, and Darcy can feel Sirius tense beside her. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I think Lucius Malfoy recognized you on the platform,” Harry frowns. “If Malfoy sees you in Hogsmeade—”

“All right, all right,” Sirius concedes, but he doesn’t seem happy about it. His tone is bitter again, and Darcy wonders if he’s regretting this completely. “It was just an idea. I thought you might like to get together.”

“I would like to, I just don’t want to see you chucked into Azkaban again,” Harry starts, but Darcy cuts him off.

“Sirius,” she whispers, but she knows everyone can still hear her perfectly clear. “I just got you back. Don’t play the fool—I don’t want them to take you away from me again.”

“Please, Sirius,” Harry continues. “If someone recognizes you—”

“You’re less like your father than I thought.” Sirius’s words shock Darcy. A low blow, she thinks. Does he mean to be cruel, or has he just been alone for a long time? “The risk would’ve been what made it fun for James.”

Harry frowns deeply, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “I—”

“We should go,” Sirius says, more to Darcy than anyone else. “I hear Kreacher coming down the stairs.” Darcy does not, of course, hear anything and she rolls her eyes. “I’ll write to you about a time I can make it into the fire again? If you can stand to risk it?”

Darcy stays put as Sirius pulls out of the fireplace. It’s suddenly very cold without him beside her, despite her head being plunged into the green flames. She’s quiet for a moment until she’s sure Sirius has left the kitchen, and she gives Harry an apologetic look. “Don’t listen to him,” she whispers gently, wanting to reach out and hold her brother to her. “He’s just lonely. He’s been picking fights with me all weekend. He’s going crazy in the house, and once I leave, he’ll be alone again.”

“He shouldn’t have said that though,” Hermione protests indignantly. “Harry isn’t his father.”

“He’s still adjusting,” Darcy says pleadingly. Hermione’s face softens, but Harry’s jaw is clenched. “He’s been in Azkaban for a really long time, and it’s going to take a while for him to get some normality back in his life. Just—just ignore him.”

“You coming back tonight, Darcy?” Ron asks casually, trying to relieve the tension.

“In a few minutes—Sirius wanted me to check the fire for him until he got to speak with you.” Darcy sighs, and the fire around her sparks and swirls. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow morning at breakfast, all right? If I’m still not there halfway through, come wake me up.”

It’s close to one o’clock in the morning when Darcy is finally ready to leave. With her bag slung over her shoulder, she gives her bedroom one last look before closing the door, wondering if Gemma will be back before next weekend. She and Kreacher pass each other as she makes her way to Sirius’s room, but they pretend not to notice each other’s low, malicious muttering. She knocks on his door, listening for a shuffle of feet or a grunt to let her know it’s all right to come in. There doesn’t seem to be any lights on inside, so Darcy rests her forehead against the door.

“Sirius, I’m leaving,” she says, knocking quietly again. “Come say a proper goodbye.”

Still, nothing. She wants to be angry at Sirius, to snap something hurtful through the door, but after what she’s just told Harry and his friends, she can’t find it in her to be quite mean. Mostly, however, Darcy just feels hurt.

“I’ll see you next weekend,” she says again, hoping he’s listening to her. “I’ll make sure Gemma stops by during the week, I’m sure she won’t mind. I love you, Sirius.”

When he doesn’t answer, Darcy takes that as her cue to leave. The floorboards creak and groan beneath her shoes, and it’s at this sound that Sirius’s bedroom door finally opens. Looking at him in such a state makes Darcy equally frustrated and sympathetic. On one hand, he looks a guilty teenager, waiting to be scolded by her, much like Harry sometimes; on the other hand, he looks like a man who misses his family, who is being broken down by a house piece by piece. He just watches her with curious gray eyes, waiting for her to do something.

“You know we want to see you,” she starts, and Sirius furrows his brow. “And you know that we want you to be able to leave this house sometimes, but—Sirius, you are not a risk we’re willing to take. If someone catches you, I’ll never see you again, and if I do, it’ll be as the drooling mess the dementors leave you if they don’t kill you first.”

Darcy takes a few steps forward, sighing.

“You promised me you’d be a father to me,” she reminds him. “How would you be able to do that from a cell in Azkaban? How would you be able to do that if you can’t remember me?”

“You’re truly your mother, aren’t you?” Sirius asks, but his tone suggests that it isn’t necessarily a good thing. Her heart pangs with sadness, but Darcy tries hard not to let it show. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Darcy?”

“I’ve had plenty of adventure these past few years,” she laughs weakly. “One day, we can have an adventure together—but not now, all right? I know you miss him, but Harry is not our father, nor am I.”

Sirius shakes his shaggy head. “You don’t have to talk to me like I’m Harry,” he says. “Like I’m your son.”

She blushes furiously, her pride shattered. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but—” Darcy adjusts her bag on her shoulder. “I have to go, Sirius.”

She feels incredibly guilty, leaving him alone in the house he despises so much, with only Kreacher and Buckbeak for company, but she can’t stay. Darcy lowers her bag to the ground and wraps her arms around him, grateful that he at least hugs her back. Sirius buries his face in her hair. “See you next weekend, kid,” he murmurs. “Love you.”

Darcy smiles against his chest, utterly content.

* * *

“ _High Inquisitor_? I don’t even know what that means, but it can’t be good.” Darcy keeps reading through the article; Snape grabs her shoulder roughly and moves her out of the way before she runs right into the wall. “Percy Weasley is a real git, isn’t he? Dumbledore should never have made him a prefect or Head Boy—all that power went straight to his head! I’d have some choice words for him if he was still here. ‘Falling standards at Hogwarts’—unbelievable! Look at this—she has the power to inspect her fellow educators.”

Snape pulls her down another corridor as she begins to wander again, too engrossed in today’s copy of the _Daily Prophet_ to be bothered to watch where she’s going.

“And what an awful man that Lucius Malfoy is—‘Dumbledore’s eccentric decisions’, he says—can you believe that?” Darcy growls to herself as she reads on, the corridors growing colder as they make their way down to the dungeon classroom. With some time left before students are due to class, the corridors are still relatively empty. “Oh good, listen to this—‘the hiring of werewolf Remus Lupin, which led to an unbalanced and rather inappropriate relationship with his ex-student, Darcy Potter, who continues to remain at Hogwarts seemingly at Dumbledore’s request. In addition to Dumbledore’s questionable educators brought into the school are half-giant Rubeus Hagrid and delusional ex-Auror Mad-Eye Moody.’ It wasn’t even _him_! Seriously, who wrote this?”

Snape holds the classroom door open for her and Darcy walks quickly inside, throwing the paper down on the front desk. He enters his personal store closet, and Darcy listens to the many bottles clink together as he goes through them. Darcy sighs, hands on her hips, looking down at the photograph of Dolores Umbridge on the front page. For a long time—ever since her first year at Hogwarts really—Darcy had thought Snape was one of the ugliest people she’s ever met, but now—she can’t even look at Umbridge’s picture for more than a few seconds, repulsed by her wide smile, her pouchy eyes, her false sweetness.

“How long do you think before Umbridge comes to inspect me?” Darcy scoffs, grabbing the paper off the desk, lighting a fire in the empty hearth with her wand, and throwing it in the flames. She watches the paper catch fire almost immediately, blackening and crumpling. “I could give her the best lesson Hogwarts has ever seen, and she’ll still hate it. She’s declared war on me by doing this.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Snape answers from the closet. “It was meant to discredit Dumbledore first, and then you.”

“How can she say these things? How can they believe that Umbridge is better than Remus? Umbridge has been here a week and has already tortured Harry and hurt me. She’s worse than Moody—and he was a _real_ Death Eater.” Not thinking, Darcy looks up to find Snape giving her a dangerous look from the doorway. “Sorry.”

Darcy stares into the fire for a moment, thinking hard. There’s no doubt in her mind that Umbridge will observe not just Snape’s classes, but one of the first year classes that Darcy teaches, as well. Maybe Snape has the right of it—Umbridge’s opportunity to inspect teachers is meant to discredit Dumbledore by showing the Ministry the incompetence of his educators. Darcy knows she’s not incompetent, that she knows Potions fairly well and learning more everyday, but Umbridge won’t care. There is no doubt in her mind that she really could give the most educational, beneficial, and best lesson in the history of Potions classes, and Umbridge will still find criticism to dish out. _This was meant to frighten me away_ , she tells herself. Darcy’s sure of it, but she will not let Umbridge frighten her out of Hogwarts, out of what will be her home for the rest of the school year. She will not be driven out by that foul, evil woman. _It doesn’t matter what I teach, my results will be the same. The day Umbridge sits in during one of my classes will be the last day I teach here at Hogwarts._

Fortunately, Umbridge does not observe any of their classes the first day, even though Darcy had been sure she would. She hears it from Harry that night (after angrily confessing he’d gotten another week’s worth of detentions with Umbridge after a comment about Quirrell) that Umbridge had felt the need to inspect Divination. This knowledge makes Darcy feel very bad for Professor Trelawney—someone she’s never been quite fond of, but surely Umbridge hadn’t been fond of Trelawney, either. Darcy makes sure to soak Harry’s bleeding and scarring hand in some Murtlap essence before sending him off to bed well past midnight.

With Harry in detention Tuesday night, Hermione and Ron are the only ones to spend her birthday evening with her (though, Hermione does bring Crookshanks, making both the room and Darcy’s heart feel a little bit fuller). Two unfamiliar owls come bearing three gifts—a bottle of rum; an old book of American poetry, marked on the pages by untidy handwriting; and a book about ancient potions. None of the cards are signed, but Darcy feels that her friends and godfather couldn’t have done a better job revealing themselves without having to write it out. Even Emily’s owl, Demeter, comes bearing a box of chocolates, and another beautiful eagle owl brings Darcy a few postcards from Carla, tracking her progress around the world. Hermione is particularly interested in these, and while Ron eats her chocolates, Darcy and Hermione flip through the postcards—Muggle pictures of the landscape and architecture and ancient history of Myanmar, Nepal, Uzbekistan, and Turkey, slowly making her way back towards Europe.

With the Invisibility Cloak folded clumsily and thrown over the back of the armchair Ron is sitting in, the both of them agree to wait for Harry to stop by. So sure are they that Harry will come, it almost surprises Darcy, but they try not to think about Harry stuck in detention with Umbridge as they eat cake and snacks stolen from the kitchens. Max helps himself to whatever crumbs and bites of snack cakes he can find, and Ron has a good time throwing food in the air and watching Max swoop to catch it.

It’s around midnight when Harry finally shows up at Darcy’s room. Darcy already has the potion set up for his hand, and he seems almost relieved to find all of his friends in the same place. “Happy birthday, Darcy,” Harry mutters, allowing his sister to kiss his head. “Sorry I couldn’t be here.”

“We’ll try again next year, or the year after that, or even the year after that,” Darcy tells him, inspecting the back of his hand and frowning. With his hand not being given the proper time to heal, from last week’s detentions, the skin is broken and violently irritated, and she knows it will be worse tomorrow after his next detention. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now,” he answers, leaning back into the sofa and cradling the bowl on his lap.

“I know it’s the last thing you want to hear,” Darcy says carefully, glancing up at Harry to gauge his reaction. “But you need to be careful around Umbridge. I worry that she’ll result to something far worse now that she’s High Inquisitor.”

Hermione, whose eyes haven’t left Harry’s hand, straightens up in her seat beside Darcy. “She’s awful,” she announces, stroking Crookshanks’s tail as he walks by to settle at Harry’s feet. “We have to do something about her.”

“Poison,” Ron grunts from the armchair, looking exhausted and rather full, patting his swelling stomach.

Hermione sighs, pursing her lips and looking hopefully to Darcy. “Maybe not poison.”

Darcy shakes her head. “I agree with you, Hermione,” she says with a slight shrug. “But I’m not really in a position to do anything about her. It’s only a matter of time before she inspects me during class, and I don’t know how long I’ll have here after that. If she really wasn’t kind to Trelawney, how do you think she’ll take to me?”

The four of them are quiet as they mull this over. Darcy feels strange, not as anxious about the situation as she thought she’d be. Maybe it’s the idea that she’s focused most of her energy into believing that Snape actually could help her if Umbridge tries to sack her; yet another part of Darcy knows that there is nothing she can do to stop herself from being kicked out. Not that it would be terrible—she could go back to Grimmauld Place, live with Sirius and have a family, she could try again with Lupin, wake him with kisses and smiles and hold his hand whenever she likes.

_But I would be letting everyone down. Harry, Dumbledore, Snape. All of the people who have told me I belong at Hogwarts. What would they say if they knew I was thinking of just giving up? Of just laying down and letting Umbridge throw me out?_

“But we’re not learning defense from her at all,” Hermione protests after a while. “And maybe the time’s come to—just do it ourselves.”

Harry lifts his eyes from his hands, narrowing them at Hermione. “Do what ourselves?”

“Learn Defense Against the Dark Arts ourselves,” Hermione continues. Her eyes burn with the passion Darcy recognizes as the look she gives when homework or exams are handed back, or when Hermione knows the answer to a teacher’s question. “We need to be able to defend ourselves, and we won’t learn anything from Umbridge.”

“What are we supposed to do?” Ron snorts, sitting up in the chair and catching Max out of the air as he flies by. Max doesn’t object, hooting affectionately as Ron scratches his feathery chest. “Spend all our time in the library looking up spells? Practicing jinxes in between classes? We’d need a teacher.”

Hermione smiles triumphantly. “But we already _know_ a teacher, Ron.”

“C’mon, Hermione,” Harry says sheepishly, giving Darcy an apologetic look. “Don’t drag Lupin into this.”

But Hermione only blinks in surprise. “Lupin?” she repeats, laughing. “I’m not talking about Lupin. I’m talking about _Darcy_.”

Darcy whips around to face Hermione, sure that her hair has just whipped the young girl in the face. “ _Me_? Teach you Defense Against the Dark Arts?” The idea makes her heart race, too much to handle. To be a real teacher, teaching her friends and her little brother how to defend themselves...after all, she’s always excelled in Defense classes, even with the many different teachers. She isn’t even sure why the idea appeals so greatly to her.

“No,” says Harry suddenly. He sounds so much older than fifteen, his voice low and commanding. Everyone’s eyes find his face, eyebrows raised. “If Umbridge catches wind—even just a rumor—that Darcy’s teaching us defense magic, they’ll send her straight to Azkaban.”

Almost immediately, all the joy is sapped out of Darcy. The short-lived idea now seems ridiculous—of course Harry is right. As if Dolores Umbridge would _ever_ allow Darcy to teach any student something not related to Potions. Darcy runs a hand through her hair, wondering if there would be some way around it—some way that she could still help Harry and his friends, some way that she could still involve herself with the learning of defensive spells. It could be something to be proud of—her own contribution to the Order of the Phoenix.

Hermione seems to have given this some thought, however, and has another suggestion. “What about you, Harry?”

Ron releases Max, leaning forward on his seat and grinning. “There’s an idea.”

Harry scoffs, a smile tugging at his lips as if it’s all a big joke. “Me? But I—I’m not a teacher.”

“But you’re the best in our year at Defense Against the Dark Arts!” Hermione counters. The fire in her eyes reminds Darcy of Oliver Wood giving a particularly rousing Quidditch speech. “Darcy could help you, and you could bring your own experiences to the table. I mean, just look at what you’ve done, Harry.”

“What? What do you mean?” Harry gives Darcy a bewildered look, but Darcy can’t find an argument against Hermione’s suggestion. It is a decent idea, even if Darcy’s disappointed.

“First year, you saved the Sorcerer’s Stone from You-Know-Who,” Ron says quickly, a smirk playing on his lips.

Harry shifts uncomfortably, a blush creeping up the back of his neck. “That was just luck—”

Darcy shifts beside Harry, as well. She hates talking about it—talking about anything they’ve done. She had only been sixteen-years-old when she dropped down the trapdoor and landed in the Devil’s Snare. Sometimes, in her dreams, she can feel the tightening around her wrists and neck, the feel of the plant as it had covered her mouth as she screamed at Hermione to kill it with fire.

Ron continues as if he hasn’t heard Harry. “Second year, you killed the basilisk and destroyed Riddle.”

Still squirming, Harry’s argument is feeble. “Yeah, but if Darcy hadn’t been there…”

The Chamber of Secrets haunts her dreams more often. She can’t remember a more terrifying experience—a more terrifying place. Tom Riddle had been her age, just a boy, staring into her face just as Voldemort had the night her parents were murdered. The weight of Gryffindor’s sword had surprised her—it was a solid thing, unyielding, and she had slashed and hacked at the basilisk until it had wrapped its tail around her, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing…

Darcy brushes the back of her neck quickly, the stray hairs tickling her skin feeling too much like spiders.

Still, Ron talks over him. “Third year, you fought off a hundred dementors.”

“But the Time-Turner—”

“And last year, you fought off You-Know-Who—”

“Listen!” Harry shouts. The room quiets, and Darcy drags her fingers through Harry’s untidy hair. He smacks her hand away with his unhurt hand, startling her. Realizing his mistake, Harry sighs and squeezes Darcy’s shoulder gently. “It sounds great when you say it like that, but it’s all just luck. I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, and I nearly always had help, and—”

“Harry,” Darcy says quietly, covering the hand on her shoulder with her own. “You’re being modest. You’re a great wizard, and you’re only fifteen. When I was fifteen, I wasn’t like you. I didn’t really start learning Defense Against the Dark Arts until trouble started taking place here and I could apply what I knew.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Harry snaps, making his sister frown. “You think it’s just memorizing spells. When you’re a second away from being murdered, or tortured, or watching your friends die—how are you supposed to think straight? Why don’t they teach us how to handle _that_ in class? It could have easily been me instead of Cedric—”

Darcy shakes her head, unable to picture the alternative scene—Cedric, returning alive from the graveyard, with Harry’s lifeless body. It’s a painful thought. “Harry, no one’s denying what you’re saying,” Darcy whispers, holding his hand tight. He’s trembling.

Hermione nods. “That’s why we need you,” she continues softly. “You know what it’s like to face—to face—Voldemort.”

The room grows silent. As far as Darcy can remember, she’s never heard Hermione call Voldemort by his name. Even though it comes out as a nervous and only half-confident squeak, it seems to calm Harry.

“Just think about it,” Hermione says again, smiling weakly. “I’m going back to the common room.” She looks from Harry to Ron and back again. “Are you coming?”

Darcy walks an invisible Hermione and Ron to the door, leaving Harry sitting on the sofa, still soaking his hand. Instead of returning to him, Darcy begins to clean up their sorry excuse for a birthday feast, putting the rest of the cake with her other snacks and hiding away the rum in her liquor cabinet. It’s only when she places her new books on the shelf beside the fireplace does Harry speak again.

“Can I stay here tonight?” he asks.

She looks over her shoulder at him, adjusting the books. “Of course.”

Darcy sets him up on the sofa when he finishes with the Murtlap essence, dimming the light by extinguishing the candles floating precariously towards the ceiling and leaving the fireplace as the only source of light. She pulls a blanket over Harry, taking his glasses off and placing them on the coffee table. His eyes are heavy with sleep, but he watches her carefully as she kneels beside him to say goodnight.

“Harry.” She gives him a small smile, cupping his warm cheek. Her words are quiet, barely a whisper. “My boy.”

“Happy birthday, Darcy,” Harry breathes, slipping off into sleep.

She hesitates before going off to bed. How many times had she done this when he was just a baby? Darcy remembers standing beside him as he slept sometimes, in awe of his little fingers and toes, smiling when he’d coo in his sleep. She had been so young that she didn’t really understand what she was getting herself into. If Darcy had known, at five-years-old, that she would be forced to become, not only a sister, but a mother—would she still have done it? Some days she doesn’t think so—some days she thinks that, had she known what would come, she would have raised him differently. To have him live without a mother like she had to, to make him stronger, to show him how to survive without a mother’s love.

But looking down on him, fast asleep on her sofa, it’s hard to believe she would have done anything differently. Darcy places a kiss to his temple before retreating to her back room.

* * *

“We’ll skip werewolf bites until Umbridge has inspected the class—I am unable to find criticism with what you have planned, but I don’t know that I should speak for her. If she does have anything to say, it will be based upon a biased lie.” Snape hands her back the lesson plan she’s drawn up for the first years’ next unit. Darcy takes it, folding it up and stuffing it back into the pocket of her robes. It’s quiet for a moment as she fusses with the front of her dress. “Darcy, you’re not going anywhere.”

Darcy looks at him quickly, skeptically. “It’s not that,” she says, turning her back on Snape and checking her watch.

Snape doesn’t answer or press the issue any further, but Darcy has a feeling he’s waiting for her to continue. She can almost feel his eyes on the back of her head, making the hair on the back of her neck stand up. It almost feels as if he’s looking _through_ her.

“I just wish I could be here and enjoy it,” she says, for reasons unknown even to herself. “I wish I didn’t have to watch my step all the time, or be the perfect girl that Dumbledore wants me to be—the little lady.” Of course Darcy isn’t going to tell him the other thing that’s bothering her—the idea that Harry doesn’t want her to be involved in the training of a few kids in regards to Defense Against the Dark Arts. “I could be great if anyone ever gave me the chance.”

“No one is denying that.” Snape looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else right now, having any other conversation but this one. “But our priority is to keep you safe first—”

“Stop it,” Darcy snaps. “I’m tired of hearing people say that. I’m tired of people thinking I’m so weak that I must be protected at all costs. What is the point of being kept safe if it means I am also kept a prisoner? What is the point of being safe if it means I must become another Aunt Petunia?”

Snape gives her a blank look, her last sentiment meaning absolutely nothing to him.

“She knew you,” Darcy confesses, only now just remembering. “When I told her I’d be returning here—the first time—I told her I’d be with you, and she knew you.”

Still, he’s quiet. Darcy doesn’t really care whether or not Snape is familiar with Aunt Petunia. _I hate them both_ , she reminds herself. But then again, Aunt Petunia had allowed her husband to beat her bloody without attempting to stop it, had allowed Vernon to lock her in her bedroom for days, had allowed Vernon to put bars on Harry’s window. It’s true that Snape has been cruel to her, but she’d been cruel to him, as well. But Snape has never raised a hand to her, never beat her so badly she bruised.

“Aunt Petunia wanted me to be a lady,” she explains quietly, tucking her dark red hair behind her ears. “She always encouraged me to not speak unless spoken to, to look pretty, to smile often and perform every stupid little courtesy. That is all I am now—taking orders from Dumbledore, told how to act, what to say, how to think.”

Not wanting to have such a serious conversation with Snape, however, Darcy crosses her arms over her chest. “It was my birthday on Tuesday and you didn’t even wish me a happy birthday.”

Snape doesn’t indulge her, but continues to look at her warily—curiously—as if seeing her properly for the first time. As the students file in from lunch, Darcy waits with bated breath for a pink clad woman to follow them in, but it seems Umbridge has decided to leave her alone today.

That, or she’s trying to kill Darcy slowly with anticipation. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween!

To Darcy’s great pleasure, Lupin is able to stay Saturday night at Grimmauld Place. To her displeasure, it’s mostly because it’s the day after the full moon, but he still finds time to spend with she and Gemma. While doing relatively well considering he’s just suffered a transformation, Lupin complains only once of the deep ache in his bones, so he settles on the sofa in the drawing room when Darcy announces she has confidential, top-secret news. Gemma has a hard time hiding her intrigue—always ready for a healthy dose of gossip—and sits down in front of the fire after requesting Kreacher leave them to talk. With Sirius brooding around the house, keeping to himself and spending extended amounts of time with Buckbeak, it has been a very lonely weekend so far, but Darcy’s spirits are lifted when the three of them finally sit down to talk.

Darcy lays on the hard, carpeted floor, her head in Gemma’s lap. The feeling of Gemma’s manicured fingernails dragging across her scalp giving her chills down her spine. For a little while they make small talk. Darcy recites them a new poem she’d learned from the book Lupin gave her, and she blushes furiously the entire time. Gemma continuously refilling their glasses of wine with something she’d found in the pantry, and Darcy tells them that she’s taken points from a student for the first time.

“Please don’t tell me it was a Slytherin,” Gemma teases.

“It was,” she says quickly. “He tried to trip me in the corridor.”

“I read about that—” Gemma calls Umbridge a word that makes Darcy blush, a word that she could never bring herself to say aloud. “—in the Prophet becoming High Inquisitor. Has she inspected you yet? And have you found out exactly what High Inquisitor means?”

“Surprisingly, no,” Darcy answers, telling Gemma off quickly for using such a foul word. Gemma only chuckles. “Professor Snape thought for sure she’d come by Friday, but she hasn’t. She’s been in Harry’s Divination class, Transfiguration class, and Care of Magical Creatures class, though. According to Harry, they were all pretty bad.”

“You’ll just have to show her you mean business,” Gemma says, grinning wickedly down at Darcy. “You’ll have to put on the best lesson in the world.”

“Not like it’ll matter much,” Darcy sighs, staring up at the shadows of the flames dancing on the cobwebbed ceiling. “You know it’s going to end in disaster, don’t you?”

“Don’t worry so much.” Gemma smiles sweetly. “You said it yourself—Snape won’t let anything happen to you so long as he’s there.”

“That was before Umbridge became High Inquisitor, and Snape still hasn’t been able to thoroughly explain what the hell that means, either.” Darcy sits up slowly, her hair a mess from Gemma’s fingers. She takes a long drink of wine from the glass at her side. “But I’ve been saving a really good lesson for when she does finally decide to show up.”

“Going to keep us in suspense?” Gemma asks.

Only Lupin seems suspicious. He sits up, turning his body to face them on the floor. Narrowing his eyes at her, he waits for Darcy to continue.

“Treating werewolf bites,” Darcy explains. She has given it a lot of thought lately, and she’s sure Snape won’t be happy, but Darcy’s hatred for Umbridge and her narrow minded views irks her in a way she can’t explain. “Snape said we should skip it until she inspects me. But I mean, it’s the perfect opportunity to play Umbridge’s game, and to stand up for werewolves and educate first years about ignorance and fear-mongering—”

“Are you _out of your mind_?”

Both Darcy and Gemma jump, looking quickly to Lupin. Darcy blushes. “Excuse me?”

“If you say one word defending werewolves during that class, Umbridge will have you kicked out so fast your head will spin.” Lupin lets out an exasperated groan, rubbing his face. “You have the chance to save your reputation and your dignity after all you went through last year, and this is what you do with it? Throw it away by defending people who don’t even want your help?”

Darcy scoffs, exchanging a lingering look with Gemma. “So _you_ speak for the werewolf population now?” Darcy retorts, frowning. “Who are you to say they don’t want my help? Don’t _you_ want my help?”

“You start speaking out for werewolves, and you’re going to make yourself a lot of enemies,” Lupin argues. “Darcy, you can’t do this. I appreciate your concern and I appreciate your empathy and determination, but you will ruin yourself if you do this.”

“Gemma’s defending them—”

“I’m not defending them,” Gemma interrupts. “I never stood up and called for equality and rights because it’s dangerous. I created a potion to help werewolves with transformations—far less dangerous, and far less enemies made. ”

“You’re public enemy number three right now, behind Dumbledore and your brother,” Lupin adds, looking far more serious than Darcy likes. “Not only would you be ridiculed at the Ministry, taunted and hated, but other werewolves would think you an easy target—trusting and naive. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Not all werewolves are like him, Darcy,” Gemma finishes, glancing up at Lupin. She coerces Darcy back into her lap with a few gentle touches, combing her hair again. “You think someone like Fenrir Greyback would see you as a hero for defending animals like him? He would see you as you are—a young and pretty girl, ripe for turning. You think he would see you as anything but a piece of meat?”

Darcy barely has time to be afraid, shuddering when Lupin says quickly, “ _You_ know Fenrir Greyback?”

“Wish I didn’t,” Gemma answers grimly. “Why?”

And in the heavy silence that follows, both Darcy and Gemma understand. “He bit you,” Darcy whispers, and Lupin nods slowly.

With a feeble attempt to lighten the mood, Gemma asks brightly, “What did you really want to tell us, Darcy?”

Darcy had almost forgotten about Hermione’s idea. She feels stupid bringing it up, knowing that they’ll probably try to talk her out of it at once. But Gemma and Lupin are seemingly her only true friends here, so she feels obligated to tell them anyway. “Harry, Hermione, and I were talking the other day—my birthday,” she begins again. “Hermione thinks that if they aren’t going to learn defensive spells from Umbridge, then they should learn elsewhere. Or rather, from _someone_ else.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to teach them defense—”

Darcy shoots Lupin a sharp look. “Why don’t you let me finish before you start telling me how stupid my idea is?”

Gemma gives Lupin a very stern look reminiscent of Professor McGonagall, as if to give Darcy some form of backup. Lupin throws his hands up in surrender and lies back down on the sofa, sighing loudly. “Go on, my little lion,” Gemma smiles down at Darcy, and Lupin lifts his head long enough to give them both an incredulous look. “Tell us all about Hermione’s ingenious idea.”

“I was going to say that Hermione suggested I teach them at first, but Harry said I’d be sent to Azkaban—”

“Good to know one of you has the right idea,” Lupin mutters.

“Just because you turned into a werewolf yesterday does not excuse you for being rude,” Gemma hisses at him. “Keep going, Darcy.”

“She asked Harry if he’d teach them,” Darcy continues as though there’d been no interruption. “Because he knew what it was like to face Voldemort—Hermione said Voldemort’s name.”

Gemma smiles weakly at the mention of Hermione. “And what did Harry say?”

Darcy hesitates, unsure of how to answer. “He’s hesitant. I told Hermione to give him some time.”

Lupin is unusually quiet on the sofa, unusually still. Darcy’s eyes flick towards him, awaiting a heated response. “That’s exactly what the Ministry is afraid of,” he finally says. “That Dumbledore’s training an army. That could get Dumbledore sent to Azkaban.”

“An army?” Darcy laughs. “They’re a bunch of students—”

“That’s what the first Order _was_ ,” Lupin explains, but he’s patient about it. “We were _boys_ —sixteen- or seventeen-years-old—running with the resistance. Do you have any idea what could happen if this is found out by Umbridge? By Fudge?”

“So you think they shouldn’t be prepared?” Darcy asks, more curious than accusing. “What other opportunity are they going to get to learn this stuff if someone doesn’t teach them?”

“If your scent is on any of this, Darcy, the Ministry will not hesitate to take you away, either,” Lupin says. He sits up again, looking down on her in Gemma’s lap. “Harry would be expelled—who knows what they would do to him—”

“This is bigger than that, isn’t it?” Darcy sits up, as well, looking hard into his face. “If I get sacked, I’ll come back here. If Harry gets expelled, then he can come here, too. I’m sure Sirius won’t mind.”

“And live your lives in hiding? As fugitives?”

“Able to dedicate our time to fighting Voldemort—”

“You were given a job to do for the Order already—that is what you need to do. Both you and Harry.”

Darcy scoffs. “And that job is what, exactly? Hover at Snape’s shoulder looking pretty? Keeping my mouth shut? Getting interrogated by Umbridge?”

“ _Yes_ —yes, that is the part Dumbledore has instructed you to play,” Lupin answers, running his hands through his hair. “Until such time as he has a different request for you, you need to put an end to this madness.”

“If I wanted to live my life playing a part, I’d go back to Privet Drive, renounce magic, and marry Gavin,” Darcy snaps. “I don’t want to do that. I want to be so much more than that, but I’m never given the chance—”

“I told you, Darcy, everything Dumbledore does—everything _we_ do—is to keep you safe.”

“I’m not afraid,” Darcy says confidently. She isn’t sure if it’s the wine, or if she truly believes it. “Voldemort wants to kill Harry, and I’m willing to risk things to stop him. I’m not afraid of having enemies, or hiding—I know what could happen to me.”

Gemma suddenly nuzzles her face into the crook of Darcy’s neck. Having momentarily forgotten Gemma was even in the room with them, Darcy jumps. “My brave little Gryffindor,” she murmurs. “I’m in favor of the army idea. Let’s train them young.”

“You can’t tell anyone,” Darcy says breathlessly, not looking away from Lupin. “No one can know.”

“Darcy…”

“Remus, please,” she whispers. “Let us handle it. We can do it.”

He looks at Gemma for a moment before meeting Darcy’s eyes again. “I’m not going to stand by while you put yourself in danger. And if Gemma was a real friend to you, she’d tell you the same.”

Gemma lifts her head from Darcy’s neck, anger flashing in her dark eyes. “How dare you?” she snarls. “How dare you suggest I’m not a real friend of Darcy’s? We’re all in danger now, and if Darcy is willing to sacrifice things, then let her. She’s a big girl.”

Lupin clenches his jaw. “Don’t do this, Darcy.”

Darcy can’t help herself. She doesn’t want to cry in front of her friends—in front of Lupin. She wipes angrily at the tears that threaten to spill from her eyes, pushing herself to her feet and crossing the room in a few long strides. “Now you’ve done it, you idiot,” Gemma murmurs.

There’s a heavy sigh and Lupin jumps from the couch. “Darcy, wait—”

Darcy barely makes it to the staircase when Lupin’s fingers close around her wrist. “Let go,” she frowns, pulling away from him and continuing up the stairs. Lupin follows, as close as he can get without touching her. Darcy makes it to her bedroom before he touches her again, a hand upon her left shoulder, kicking the door closed with his foot. “Go away—get out—”

“Darcy, please, listen to me—” Lupin grabs at her hand, attempting to pull her to him.

“What more could you possibly have to say to me?” Darcy growls, tearing her hand away from him. “It’s not enough for you to humiliate me by walking out, but now you must humiliate me in front of my best friend?”

“I didn’t mean to humiliate you,” he says apologetically. “I’m sorry. I just—I don’t think you understand the consequences that could come of these things, and I would hate to see you thrown out of Hogwarts—”

“Would you?” Darcy scoffs, wiping her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater. “All you wanted was for me to leave Hogwarts—to stay—and now you’re acting as if it’s the worst thing in the world—”

“I wanted you to _choose_ to stay,” Lupin replies, holding her face in his warm hands for a moment, clearly frustrated. Darcy’s eyes close instinctively when his forehead touches hers lightly—but he seems to realize too late what he’s doing and pulls away just as quickly. He lowers his voice, hurt. “Not like this, my love—not this. The safest place for you is at Hogwarts, whether you believe it or not, and by purposefully putting yourself in a situation that leaves Umbridge no choice but to force you out—”

Darcy’s thin eyebrows knit together, and she takes a step back. “Will I ever be enough for you?” she whispers, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Don’t do this,” he pleads, mussing up his hair. “Besides—if you’re kicked out of Hogwarts, who will keep an eye on Harry and his army of students?”

They look at each other for a long time. Darcy narrows her eyes at him, expecting it to be a trick—a joke, but there is no punchline. “You mean it?” she breathes. “You won’t tell anyone? You promise?”

It seems as if he’s agreeing against his better judgement (and Darcy can’t quite blame him), but Lupin nods wearily. “Yes, I promise—”

Before he’s able to get all of the words out, Darcy wraps her arms tight around his neck. He stumbles backwards slightly, snaking his arms around her waist and groaning. Darcy pulls away quickly, but his arms keep her in place. “I’m sorry—I wasn’t thinking—are you all right?”

Lupin chuckles weakly. “I’m fine, don’t be sorry.” Still uncomfortably close, he continues as if nothing is wrong. “Promise me, though, that you’ll forget all this talk of werewolves. Promise me you won’t make a fool of yourself in front of Umbridge.”

“Remus,” Darcy sighs, her smile faltering. “How can I forget when I’ve watched you suffer for so long now?” She rests her hands on his shoulders, blushing. “I want to help you.”

“You _have_ helped me. You’ve done more to help me than you can possibly know.” He swallows hard, moving his hands lightly to her narrow hips. “You’re very hard to stay away from, do you know that?”

“You’re just lonely,” Darcy whispers. She doesn’t particularly like the idea of being used—in fact, she despises the idea—but the idea of him being the one to use her makes it seem slightly more appealing. Even if she’s able to have Lupin for a few hours during the weekends—a few stolen minutes, stolen touches and smiles—that would be enough. She doesn’t even need to be his—just as long as she knows he still loves her. _Was this how Oliver felt_? “I don’t mind.”

“No,” he says quickly, so abruptly it makes her start. In a split second, Lupin’s hands are withdrawn from her waist and he takes a few hasty, stumbling steps backwards. Looking pained at the bewildered expression on Darcy’s face, he shakes his head. “No, Darcy—I won’t do that to you. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Darcy answers, giving an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry.”

“No—don’t apologize—I just, er—” Reduced to a stammering, blushing mess, Darcy smiles at him encouragingly. He seems half a boy standing in front of her, or like the stuttering fool he’d been when she was still his student, confessing his feelings. “I care about you—too much to do that to you.”

“I suppose I should be flattered,” Darcy jokes, but it’s a feeble attempt at humor. It’s hard to make honest jokes while her heart throbs painfully, breaking. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to—stay away from now on.”

“Right, but—I don’t want that.” Lupin shrugs awkwardly. “I mean, I want to be friends with you.”

“When you’re not avoiding me on some Order mission, you mean?” This time they both chuckle nervously, looking down at their feet. “This is it, then. It’s all over, for good this time?”

Lupin lifts his face. “Yes—I won’t use you, Darcy. But I want to say some things first—things that won’t leave this room.”

Darcy’s heart gives a hopeful flutter. “Yes?”

He swallows again, grinding his teeth for a few seconds. Whatever Darcy had expected him to say, it’s not this—this only makes her hurt more. “I really wanted you to marry me. I would have taken care of you.”

“I really wanted to marry you.” Darcy tucks her hair behind her ears. “When the war is over, ask me again.”

“You know that, if it comes down to it, there’s a very slim chance the both of us will make it out of this war alive.” Lupin throws her a sorrowful look. “We may never get that chance.”

“‘I hold it true, whate’er befall; I feel it when I sorrow most’,” Darcy whispers, smiling in spite of herself. “‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

Lupin smiles back at her, seemingly exasperated, but amused. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved you, Darcy.”

Darcy starts to cry again, but she isn’t embarrassed by it this time. She covers her face with her hands for a moment before wiping her cheeks with her palms.

“I’ve said enough,” Lupin murmurs, his cheeks pink. “I should go. Goodnight.”

He slips out of her bedroom stealthily, closing the door behind him. Darcy watches him the whole time, wishing he’d at least kissed her one last time.

* * *

“You’re not _really_ going to listen to him, are you?”

“I promised him I wouldn’t do the werewolf lesson for Umbridge,” Darcy retorts, running a comb through her hair, watching herself in the mirror. “I’ll just have to—put all that on hold. Teaching Hermione and Ron won’t be too bad—I’ll just tell her that I’ll do it and I’ll be so busy that I won’t be bothered by anything else or have time to think about anything else.”

Gemma hums. She leans back on her pillow, closing her eyes. “Yeah, remember when Emily’s mum died and Emily started working herself half to death?” she asks, as if Darcy could have forgotten.

“It’s not like that,” Darcy says slowly. “Keeping busy is good for me. I can’t be alone with my thoughts or I’ll become a drunk.”

“You also can’t repress your thoughts by pushing them aside,” Gemma counters. “Kinda like what happened to you seventh year, when you had that mental breakdown because you repressed all your—”

“I wasn’t having a mental breakdown seventh year!” Darcy turns away from the mirror, affronted and bright red.

“You had a mental breakdown seventh year, like it or not,” Gemma laughs. “Everyone was just too polite to say so.”

Darcy fumes, turning away again.

“In the meantime,” Gemma laughs from atop the bed. “If you’re so insistent on doing something for werewolves, St Mungo’s is hosting one last gala to raise money for the funding of my potion in a few weeks. If you’re interested in making a large donation in your name, we might be able to have Emily write an article about it in the _Prophet_.”

“What would that do? Why do I feel like you’re just after my money?” Darcy frowns.

“It’s not a big thing, but it would show the readers of the _Daily Prophet_ that you’re interested enough in the welfare of werewolves to donate so generously.”

“You heard what Emily said,” Darcy argues. “The Ministry looks over everything that’s published in the _Prophet_.”

“The Ministry will think it’s a mocking point—Darcy Potter and her disgusting affiliation with werewolves. That _is_ the angle they’re using, isn’t it, Darcy?” Gemma asks, and Darcy shrugs, blushing. “We can start there—start small and test the waters. Maybe you could even come to the gala!”

“Fat chance.” Darcy lines her fingers up with the scars showing underneath the strap of her shirt. “All right. How much gold are you looking for?”

Gemma sits bolt upright, grinning.

* * *

Sunday afternoon finds Darcy and Sirius alone at Grimmauld Place. Darcy’s quite glad he’s chosen to come out of his bedroom to be with her, even if he does stink of alcohol and smile a bit more and a bit wider than usual. He even asks to see her photo album again, and while it’s not as exciting for him to see all the pictures of she and her friends as it is for Darcy, she promises to, next weekend, bring along the photo album that contains the pictures of her parents. Sirius seems to perk up at talk of her returning next weekend, and Darcy already eagerly awaits the coming week to be over.

They keep away from the drawing room, away from the tapestry showing the Black family tree. Mostly, they keep to the kitchen, throwing Fred and George’s leftover dungbombs into the corridor whenever Kreacher comes too near, playing Exploding Snap, and Darcy even gets a few good photographs of Sirius while he isn’t looking. He wrestles the picture out of her hands before it has time to dry, and they both wait eagerly as the picture is slowly revealed to them.

The photograph reveals a side to Sirius that Darcy isn’t sure she’s ever seen before. Caught off guard, oblivious to the photo about to be taken, Darcy has captured a beautiful picture of Sirius’s profile—his straight nose and sharp, symmetrical jawline illuminated by the large, crackling fire, his skin tinted orange, making him seem healthier—putting some color back into his face. His dark hair falls down past his chin now, carefully tamed waves framing his thin face, giving him that carefree look Darcy admires so much.

“I look good,” Sirius notes breathlessly, unable to look away from the photograph, until Darcy takes it from between his fingers. He turns in his chair to look at her, his brow furrowed. “I look good.”

She smiles and nods. “Yes,” she answers, resting her cheek against his shoulder and closing her eyes. “Very handsome.”

Darcy makes dinner for the two of them, and halfway through, they’re joined by none other than Professor McGonagall. She claims to have a message for Sirius from Dumbledore, but joins them for dinner. She seems to have too much fun sharing stories about Sirius and James while they’d been at school, and Sirius doesn’t seem at all abashed at any of the stories. He refuses to reveal his secrets, instead allowing McGonagall to guess how they’d played each prank, how they managed to get from one end to the castle to the other in a small amount of time, and Darcy smiles and laughs along with them. Professor McGonagall even tells Sirius about catching Darcy in the middle of a party and sending a letter to Mr. Weasley.

“Too bad I wasn’t out yet,” Sirius jokes, chuckling darkly and elbowing Darcy in the arm. “You wouldn’t have gotten a Howler from me, Darcy.”

When dinner is finished and the hour grows later and later, Professor McGonagall asks Darcy to wait outside the kitchen while she exchanged a quick word with Sirius. When Darcy puts her ear to the door, she finds that she isn’t surprised McGonagall has put a spell on the door to keep her from eavesdropping. Instead, she waits patiently on the stairs for a few minutes. When the door opens, Darcy gets to her feet.

“I’ll walk you out, Professor,” Darcy smiles, in high spirits after such a wonderful dinner.

Professor McGonagall seems taken aback, but pleasantly surprised. She allows Darcy to escort her to the door, where she pulls her traveling cloak down from the rickety, uneven coat stand. “How have classes been going, Potter?”

“Good,” Darcy answers truthfully. “The first years like me. Probably only because I’m not Professor Snape, but—you know.” She laughs again, and even Professor McGonagall fights the smile tugging at her lips. “It’s good.”

McGonagall looks past Darcy towards the kitchen, where Sirius must be cleaning up with all the racket he’s making. Looking both curious and solemn, she asks, “Potter, how much do you remember of that night?”

Darcy blinks in surprise. Professor McGonagall has never once, as far as she can remember, asked what Darcy can remember about the night of her parents’ murder. She shrugs uncomfortably and whispers her next words. “Enough that I still dream about it sometimes.”

“Do you remember arriving at your aunt and uncle’s?”

Wary, Darcy shrugs. “I, er—I…” Darcy thinks hard, but finds her memory comes up short. “I remember Sirius finding me amongst the rubble of our house...and then…” She tries to think harder, willing the memory forward, but it just seems a blur. “I remember Aunt Petunia bringing us inside—there was a letter—she was crying—someone told me to…someone said I had to be brave—Dumbledore?” Darcy shakes her head, unable to recall anything else. The more traumatic bits take center stage in her memory. “Why?”

McGonagall purses her lips very tightly, but not in a stern way. She seems to be fighting some internal conflict with herself, but finally she says, “I was there that night,” she confesses, and Darcy frowns, her heart racing. She isn’t sure she wants to know what McGonagall is about to admit to, but Darcy can’t bring herself to stop her. “You looked at me before your aunt brought you inside—‘tell Sirius I’m here’, you said. ‘Tell him I’m waiting. Tell him I love him’. And when I had heard what had happened—that Sirius had been sent to Azkaban for all those murders, I thought of you. I thought of you waiting at your window for the sound of his motorbike, come to take you away.”

Darcy’s heart is beating very fast, and she tries so hard to remember— _did I do that? Did I wait for Sirius to come get me? Did I eventually give up one day, realizing that no one was coming for me_? All the thinking and remembering makes her head hurt. She looks at Professor McGonagall for a long time, a crease between her eyebrows. “He came back for me,” she says, smiling weakly. “I had to wait a long time, but he came back.”

Professor McGonagall places a hand upon the side of Darcy’s face. Her palm is cold, her long, thin fingers softer than Darcy could have expected. There’s a smile on her face, but it’s a sad smile. “I’m so sorry, Potter,” she sighs. “That was the very last place I wanted to leave you and your brother.”

Darcy doesn’t know what to say, but she certainly doesn’t want McGonagall to feel guilty about things far out of her control. “It’s all right, Professor,” Darcy says. “I don’t blame you.”

When Professor McGonagall leaves, Darcy stands there for a few minutes, digesting everything. _McGonagall was there the night Harry and I were dumped at the Dursleys’ doorstep_ , she thinks. _I thought Sirius would come back for Harry and me._ And then an arm drapes around her shoulders and she jumps, Sirius’s face suddenly next to hers, seemingly out of nowhere.

“What were you guys talking about?” he asks casually, clearly unaware of the subject matter.

She pauses, turning to look at him. “You would have come back for me, right?” Darcy searches his face for an answer before he even gives one. “If you hadn’t been sent to Azkaban, you would have come for me?”

Sirius nods slowly. “You don’t think I’d have actually left you there, do you?” He chuckles, as if she’s being ridiculous. With a swift kiss to her temple, Sirius withdraws his arm from around her, walking backwards towards the kitchen. “Hope it’s not too much trouble if I bum a cigarette? I don’t think I’ve smoked one since I was in school.”

Seeing Sirius smiling at her, slightly drunk, coercing her back towards the kitchen for an after dinner drink and smoke, Darcy finds it difficult to dwell on what McGonagall had told her. When Sirius notices her hesitation, he extends a hand out to her. Darcy grins, clapping her hand in his and letting his fingers wrap tight around her own. He pulls her towards the kitchen, cursing his mother, his family, the house (only half bitter about it), as Darcy lights a cigarette and holds it out for him. He takes a long drag, coughs once, and nods in approval.

* * *

Monday night, after a long, dull, and tiring day, Darcy’s flipping through the _Evening Prophet_ when someone enters through the portrait hole, jingling and jangling. Hermione, her wild hair pulled back into a ponytail, marches right up to Darcy with a box in her arms—the same box she’d reached in last year to procure three S.P.E.W. badges. Darcy grimaces, hoping Hermione hasn’t gotten any far-fetched ideas about house-elves. Hermione had been the first person Darcy had seen upon coming back from Grimmauld Place, and had therefore been the first person to hear of Gemma’s proposal.

Darcy watches Hermione warily. She seats herself on the sofa, waits for Darcy to fold up the newspaper and move it aside, and then looks down at the box. “What’ve you got there, Hermione?”

Hermione hesitates, looking nervous. And then, she tips the box upside down and lets the inner contents fall onto the sofa, in the space between them. Instead of shining, freshly polished S.P.E.W. badges, several coins clatter onto the cushions—mostly silver Sickels, a plethora of bronze Knuts, and a few golden Galleons. Hermione looks up and shrugs slightly.

“What’s this?” Darcy asks again, raising an eyebrow.

Cheeks tinted pink, Hermione shifts on the sofa, holding the now empty box in her lap. “You donated so much to help with S.P.E.W., and you bought three badges when everyone else only bought one—if they bought any at all. So…” Hermione smiles weakly. “This is for you and Gemma.”

“Oh—Hermione, I—I don’t know what to say—” Darcy runs a hand through her hair.

“I think you’re doing a good thing,” Hermione insists, a little more confident. “Take it, please.”

Darcy means to refuse, to push the money away and insist she keep it for S.P.E.W., but Hermione is giving her such a pleading look, clearly hoping Darcy will accept. So she does. “Hermione, I—” She laughs softly. “Thank you.”


	22. Chapter 22

“You know, he’s not so bad,” Darcy hums, as Angelina Johnson zooms by them with the Quaffle, startling Max so badly he flies back off towards the owlery. Free of her affectionate owl, Darcy stretches and leans back, the chill autumn breeze hitting her full in the face. The Quaffle is thrown hard at the left goalpost; Ron kicks it away, keeping his balance on his broomstick and looking slightly more confident this time around. “He’s a decent flier. Where did he learn to fly like that?”

Hermione’s face is hardly visible. The tip of her nose is bright red from the whipping wind, a knitted hat pulled down to her eyebrows, and a red and gold scarf wrapped around her lips. She pulls it down to answer so Darcy’s able to hear her clearly. “He said he used to practice with his brothers,” Hermione explains, and Darcy hums again, nodding. At the sight of a sly smile creeping across Hermione’s face, Darcy narrows her eyes. “I bet there’s another Keeper on your mind, isn’t there, Darcy?”

Blushing, Darcy gives Hermione a sharp look. “Boys are the last thing on my mind right now,” she scoffs, lying through her teeth.

“Right. Remember my first year during that one practice? Oliver kicked the Quaffle away to make the save and it hit you right in the face?”

Darcy laughs loudly, her laughter ringing throughout the stadium. Hermione laughs along with her. “A broken nose, two black eyes, and I needed my front tooth fixed after it chipped.” A chill runs down her spine, and she bares her teeth at Hermione, touching her front tooth. “I can still feel it. Though, Oliver was very, _very_ nice to me until I was all better. Let me copy his homework and everything.”

In truth, Oliver had done much more than that. He’d walked her up to the hospital wing and stayed with her until Madam Pomfrey forced him out, insisting that Darcy needed sleep. When Darcy woke the following morning, it was to find Oliver in the bed beside her, sporting a freshly broken nose. Though he’d smiled while explaining Darcy’s boyfriend at the time punched him after hearing about what had happened to her at Quidditch practice, Darcy had never felt so bad. After Madam Pomfrey set Oliver’s nose right and set them free, Darcy had dragged him down to the edge of the Forbidden Forest and they played at kissing for a little while, touching each other over their clothes for the first time with the piquing curiosity of sixteen-year-old kids hungry for affection.

But Hermione doesn’t need to know that.

“Guess what Professor Snape is having me brew?” Darcy smiles, cocking an eyebrow. Hermione shrugs, intrigued. “Polyjuice Potion. The seventh years are starting on it soon, and you know how long it takes to make. I think he was a bit concerned about my confidence in brewing it, or very suspicious, at least.”

“How’s Snuffles? He isn’t still upset about not being able to come to Hogsmeade, is he?”

Darcy sighs. Her heart aches at the thought of Sirius. “He drinks a lot. Gemma makes sure to check in on him every so often.” Suddenly restless, Darcy shifts on the bench. “He hates it in the house, but until Fudge sees reason—which I’m sure he never will—he’s stuck there.”

“I miss her. Gemma.” Hermione looks wistfully at Ron as he saves another goal from being scored. “Maybe she could meet us in Hogsmeade the first weekend trip.”

Smiling, Darcy answers, “I think she’d like that very much.”

“Has Umbridge been bothering you?” Hermione asks, looking curiously at Darcy.

“No. Trust me, you’d know if she was.”

Though Darcy finds it highly suspicious, she isn’t complaining. Umbridge still gives her that oily smile during meals or when they pass each other in the corridors, but she hasn’t engaged Darcy in another conversation since the day she’d magically caned her hands. Perhaps she’d come to the conclusion that Darcy was telling the truth about Sirius and Lupin and why she’s at Hogwarts—after all, Snape had provided her with what she thought was Veritaserum. But Darcy has a feeling she hasn’t escaped Umbridge altogether. She and Snape, ever since the announcement of Umbridge becoming High Inquisitor, have been dreading their inspection—or rather, Snape has been dreading _Darcy’s_ inspection. High-strung and on edge, moreso than usual, Snape’s been in a particularly vindictive mood lately, and Darcy’s sorry to admit she isn’t able to stop him sometimes.

“I told Gemma and Remus about your idea,” Darcy says again, as Katie Bell puts the Quaffle past Ron. Both she and Hermione groan. “About learning Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Hermione’s head turns as fast as Max’s might, and she looks unnecessarily nervous. “And?”

“Gemma took to it almost immediately,” Darcy replies, giving Hermione another knowing and reassuring smile. “She’s very proud of you. Remus, on the other hand, needed a little convincing.”

“Do I want to know what that means?” Hermione chuckles. “A _little_ convincing?”

Blushing, Darcy hits Hermione playfully in the arm. They both laugh, shivering as a gust of wind hits them. “We talked about it,” she explains, exasperated. “He won’t tell anyone, I’m sure of it. But Hermione—you know, I don’t mind teaching you. I mean, I’m good at spells. Aren’t I?”

“No one said you weren’t,” Hermione smiles, looking too apologetic. “And I know you’ve done a lot of things other people haven’t, but—Harry’s right. I don’t want to see you locked up in Azkaban because of my own idea.”

Darcy nods slowly, watching Harry dive for the Snitch. He catches it almost as if it’s second nature before letting it go again and giving it a head start. She had expected Hermione to say that, but wanted to offer anyway.

“And I was thinking, too—I mean, why limit it to just Ron and I? If people are willing to learn, shouldn’t we give them that opportunity?”

While the idea still definitely appeals to her, Darcy feels her stomach knot with unease. “Do you think it’s smart to trust everyone?”

“You sound like Mad-Eye,” Hermione jokes.

Darcy doesn’t have an answer to this. She only smiles weakly and returns to watching Quidditch practice. “I was thinking of asking Dumbledore if I could go to the gala at St Mungo’s,” Darcy continues, the thought exciting her. “Remus says it’s a bad idea for me to go. He says I should ask Dumbledore, and maybe he’d send some Order members with me, but I’d like to go.”

“Send some Order members?” Hermione raises her eyebrows and they disappear beneath her hat. “Don’t be silly, Darcy. He just wants to go with you.”

Biting her cheek, Darcy shrugs, not comfortable enough to reveal to Hermione her conversation with Lupin just last weekend. “I don’t think so.”

* * *

The next week and a half or so seems to run almost _too_ smoothly. And if Darcy has learned anything from her years at Hogwarts (especially her later years), it’s that when things seem normal, something is bound to happen to throw her off track very soon.

The fact that Umbridge still has yet to even peek into the dungeon classroom during class strikes Darcy as very odd. Though she and Snape don’t talk about it much, she has a feeling Snape is just as suspicious about this as she is. Darcy starts to feel paranoid when Umbridge catches sight of her with Harry, Hermione, or Ron—or all three together, or some mix—wondering if Umbridge somehow knows what Hermione has planned. It’s impossible, of course, for the only time they converse about practical Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons is in the privacy of Darcy’s room or at Quidditch practice, where no one is around to listen. Regardless, the sweet smile Umbridge puts on seems to be a little too knowing at times, a little too sweet, a little too wide.

But life seems to go on.

The first years are especially taken with Darcy—most of them, anyway—though she still thinks it has something to do with the fact that they don’t have to deal much with Snape. This is, however, something that lifts Darcy’s spirits immensely. Having not been around for the Triwizard Tournament, the first years are not as up to speed about what had happened during the last task, saving her many questions. They don’t look at her as if she’s crazy, as if she’s a liar, like many of the older students do. The younger students even smile at her in the corridors or during meal times, and a scrawny Ravenclaw boy with thick-rimmed glasses and a head full of thick, curly, blonde hair even makes it a point to greet her whenever they meet outside of classes, blushing furiously whenever she answers with a smile.

Darcy knows she shouldn’t feel so happy, but it’s hard not to. She knows that she should feel angry about what the _Daily Prophet_ has to say about, not only her at times, but about Harry and Dumbledore. She knows she should feel anxious about Umbridge inspecting one of her classes. She knows she should feel all kinds of feelings about Hermione’s plan to learn defensive spells in secret. But Darcy can only think of the one thing she has this year that she didn’t really have last year—a _family_.

While it had been nice (for lack of a better word) being able to go to Lupin’s during the weekends last school year, Darcy begins to find her own place at Grimmauld Place. It’s like having at least one parent again—a real one, not a stand-in like Mr. Weasley had been (though he and Mrs. Weasley do come around one Sunday for an early dinner). With Lupin adhering to his original plan to help more with the Order, Darcy hardly sees him the weekend after their private conversation, but he does drop by the Friday evening shortly after Darcy arrives, gratefully accepting the food from Hogwarts she’s smuggled back to Grimmauld Place.

While Darcy knows she should be saddened by the conversation they’d had, something in her finds it very difficult to actually be sad about it. Even though Lupin had put an end to whatever had still been going on, he had also told her he cared about her, implied that he still loved her very deeply, and didn’t even protest when Darcy told him to ask her to marry him once the war was over. _He doesn’t think we’ll live long enough to get to that point_ , she reminds herself, the nasty voice in her head trying hard to upset her. But Darcy only ignores it and tells herself, _then I suppose I must live._

Her heart is still full to bursting. While most of her time at Grimmauld Place is spent with Sirius and Gemma, Darcy loves the small window of time where Lupin is there to join them. They drink around the kitchen table and laugh and Darcy can’t remember ever feeling like that before—part of a family, a real family, where everyone loves each other unconditionally and is honest and open. The closest thing Darcy can think of is days spent shut in a bathroom with Gemma, Emily, and Carla (her heart lurches at the thought of her other friends), but it’s not the same. Those days hadn’t filled the gaping hole in her heart like days spent around Sirius’s kitchen table does.

She only wishes Harry could be there with her.

And all the while, Gemma persists about the gala. She’d brought the suggestion to the person hosting the gala (“The Healer I work most closely with has a sister _rolling_ in Galleons, and it’s said her son is very, very cute.”) of a masquerade, hoping it would help keep Darcy’s identity hidden if she were to come. Feeling slightly more hopeful and with time running out, Darcy decides to seek Dumbledore out the following week to ask if she has leave to go.

She doesn’t get the chance until the middle of the week. While grading papers in her room one Tuesday evening, Darcy can hear the portrait guarding her door speaking a question. “What shape does Darcy Potter’s Patronus take?”

“A doe,” comes Harry’s voice, and the portrait swings open. Harry, Ron, and Hermione shuffle into her room, different expressions on each face.

While Harry looks slightly anxious, slumping into the empty armchair by the fire, Hermione looks ecstatic, beaming as she takes a seat on the sofa and rifles through the homework on the table, presumably looking for her own. Ron looks simply bored, giving Hermione a sharp and uncharacteristic look for going through Darcy’s things. “What’s going on?” Darcy asks them all, putting the stopper back in her ink bottle and cleaning up her things. “Everything all right?”

“We’re going to meet during the first Hogsmeade weekend,” Hermione explains, but Darcy gives her a look that prompts further explaining. “Harry’s agreed to teach us, and Ron and I are going to see if anyone else is interested. Those who are will meet us in the village. You will come, won’t you?”

Harry clenches his jaw, looking directly at Darcy. “It’ll look suspicious if Darcy’s seen in Hogsmeade with a bunch of students—and with me at the head.”

Darcy ignores him, feeling her stomach knot. _Doesn’t he want me to be a part of this at all_? True, Harry and Darcy haven’t been able to talk as much as they like. She quite understands, of course—O.W.L. year had been a nightmare for her at first, until she’d finally learned how to manage her workload. Harry hasn’t gotten to that part yet, but is still drowning in schoolwork. Their muttered conversations during Potions classes are never regarding anything of import given the amount of eavesdroppers around, and they keep quiet mostly in the corridors, as well, when they get the chance to walk to and from dinner.

Nevertheless, Darcy feels slightly guilty for another reason altogether. “I’d love to,” she begins, giving them all an apologetic look. “But...you know, that gala’s the same Saturday as the Hogsmeade visit—”

“It’ll take you all day to get ready for some stupid party?” Ron asks, half-amazed and half-amused.

Darcy blushes, avoiding Ron’s eyes. “Gemma said—if Dumbledore says I can go—she’ll help me get ready.”

Ron stretches, putting his feet on the now empty table, his hands behind his head. “Remind me again why Dumbledore has to give you permission?” Darcy can’t help it—she sits down on the floor with her back to the fire and looks Ron in the face again. “You’re of age, you’re a teacher, and last I checked, he’s not your dad. Unless there’s something you’re not telling us?”

“It’s a good idea to check with Dumbledore first,” Hermione counters quickly, though she looks disappointed about the conflict during their first Hogsmeade weekend. “Who knows what kind of people will attend? One of them may intend Darcy harm.”

“I hope not,” Darcy says suddenly. “It’s just polite, isn’t it? To ask Dumbledore first?”

Ron shrugs, seemingly finished in regards to the subject.

“If I can’t go, then I’ll be in Hogsmeade with you—”

“And what happens when Umbridge sees you leading a bunch of students around the village?” Harry cuts in. Darcy blinks in surprise, shaking her head and shrugging. “This is risky, especially for you.”

“So you don’t want my help?” Darcy asks him, feeling hurt. “I’m not afraid of a little risk, Harry. If Umbridge really feels the need to sack me, then I’ll just stay with Sirius. It’s not ideal, but I’m interested in helping—I want you to be prepared for what’s out there, and I want to help—”

“And I want you to be safe,” Harry retorts, making Darcy scoff. “I don’t want you to be chucked out of Hogwarts because of me.”

“It wouldn’t be because of you, Harry,” Darcy argues. She’s tried very hard to be patient with Harry all summer and even so far into the school year, but his temper and the shortness with which he sometimes speaks to her is starting to grate on her nerves. “Harry, I’m twenty now, and I can make my own decisions. I want to be a part of this—of the resistance—”

“You are,” Harry points out, his eyes barely visible behind the lenses of his glasses, flashing with firelight. “You’re part of the Order.”

“I’m as much a part of the Order as you are,” Darcy answers bitterly. She pulls her knees to her chest, frowning up at her brother. “The first night we showed was the only meeting I was allowed at, and they didn’t even say anything good. Dumbledore hasn’t been letting anyone tell me anything.”

“You’re there every weekend—how do you not know anything?” Harry snaps, suddenly far too accusing for Darcy’s liking. Hermione and Ron stiffen awkwardly on the sofa at the sound of Harry’s words, their eyes moving back and forth from Harry to Darcy and back. “You’re telling me Sirius keeps secrets from _you_?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Darcy hisses.

“Only that while you’re at Grimmauld Place playing at a family, I’m stuck here,” Harry growls, and Darcy softens immediately. How can she possibly be mad at Harry for that? If she were in his position, she’d probably feel the same way. “Dumbledore won’t even talk to me, and you can just walk up and ask about going to a gala?”

“I haven’t even spoken to Dumbledore since our first day back at Hogwarts, and he only wanted to check in on me.” Darcy sighs heavily, running her fingers through her hair. “I know how you’re feeling, Harry. If I could bring you with me on weekends, I would. You know that I miss you when I’m there.”

Harry doesn’t answer, but he looks away from her, unable to look his sister in the face any longer. Darcy, feeling sick to her stomach at the thought Harry would ever feel as if he didn’t have a place with she and Sirius, stands up and retreats to her bedroom, kissing Harry’s head as she passes him.

* * *

“Professor Dumbledore!”

Dumbledore stops abruptly, turning around in the empty corridor to wait for Darcy to catch up. It doesn’t take very long, and she falls into step beside him. “Darcy,” he smiles politely. “A pleasant surprise. Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine,” she replies. “I was wondering if I might ask you something, sir.”

He nods. “Let us go somewhere more private, yes?”

His office isn’t far, and it’s there that Dumbledore leads her. Darcy follows him quietly up the staircase. Fawkes the phoenix is glowing on his perch, allowing Darcy to stroke his feathers with gentle fingers. The Sorting Hat sits atop the tall cabinet on the opposite side of the room, as still as a normal, shabby old hat. Most of the old Headmasters and Headmistresses are sleeping in their portraits, a few of them out of their frames altogether, while others watch as Darcy takes a seat opposite Dumbledore.

“Professor Snape tells me you’ve been in a good mood lately,” Dumbledore chuckles. “I think he told me you were singing while brewing your potion the other day.”

Darcy blushes. “Only to annoy him, Professor,” she laughs, and she’s pleased when Dumbledore laughs along with her.

“I highly doubt your happiness annoys Professor Snape in the slightest.” Dumbledore looks her over curiously, his smile fading. “What can I do for you, Darcy?”

“Well, I was wondering—” Darcy hesitates, suddenly nervous. She shifts awkwardly in her seat, holding her clasped hands between her thighs. “I’m donating a large sum of gold to help fund Gemma’s potion, and St Mungo’s is having a gala the first Saturday of October to raise more funds for it, and I was wondering whether I might be able to go, sir?”

Dumbledore doesn’t seem very surprised by her request. “A gala? Forgive my being bold, but you have never struck me as a girl who would be interested in such things.”

Darcy clears her throat, unsure of how to answer such a claim. “It’s for a cause I believe in, and it would be nice to be able to go out and have some fun,” she says after a heavy pause. Wondering if it’s best just to make Dumbledore laugh again, she adds, “It can get quite lonely here, sir, with no one of age to drink with.”

This has the effect she’d intended, and Dumbledore laughs heartily. “You are always welcome to share a drink with me, Darcy, unless you’d rather your drinking companion a bit younger.” He chuckles once more before putting on a more serious face. “I appreciate you coming to me first, and I’m sure you would understand my concerns about you going to a gala.”

Darcy’s heart sinks, and all hope she had of going to the gala vanishes suddenly. “I understand, sir.”

Dumbledore gives her a particularly piercing stare, considering her for a long time. “These are dark and dangerous times for someone like yourself,” he continues gently, as if very aware of the hurt she feels. “Many people wish you harm for no other reason than your support for myself and your brother. Death Eaters walk among us now—our neighbors, our friends, our coworkers. The last thing I would ever want is for one of those Death Eaters to recognize you at a gala and either hurt or take you.”

“I understand,” Darcy says again, looking down into her lap and wiping her sweaty hands on her pants. “I’m sorry, Professor, I should have known it was stupid to ask.”

“I think it was very smart of you to ask, on the contrary,” Dumbledore answers quickly, holding a hand out to stop her from getting out of her chair. “Thank you for bringing this to me, Darcy. If you had not, how would I have prepared a guard for you?”

Though the idea of being surrounded by Order members isn’t her favorite, Darcy smiles again. “You mean I can go?”

Dumbledore strokes his white beard, seemingly delighted at Darcy’s enthusiasm. “I don’t see why not. I’ll tell you what—I will make a stop by Grimmauld Place in the coming days to see if I can rally any volunteers. I don’t know that it will be extremely difficult, but I would rather you not go alone. Does that seem fair?”

Darcy can’t argue with his logic. “Yes,” she sighs happily. “Yes. Fair. Thank you, Professor Dumbledore.”

As Dumbledore gets to his feet to walk Darcy out, he lingers at the doorway. “I’m glad to hear you’ve been kind to Professor Snape, Darcy. Has he been kind to you, as well?”

She nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He strokes his beard again, his look making Darcy feel exposed, vulnerable, and naked. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

Darcy shivers. What could he possibly be waiting for? That her brother is planning to lead an army of students? That Umbridge had interrogated and hurt her? That she has to use the bathroom very, very badly? “No, sir,” Darcy lies brazenly. She gives Dumbledore a polite curtsey and walks herself down the spiral staircase two stairs at a time. 


	23. Chapter 23

“Did you know she still talks to Viktor Krum? I mean, the guy was a competitor—the _enemy_ —”

“Ron, I think you’re being a little bit dramatic,” Darcy says, smiling at a passing first year as they make their way down to dinner. “Viktor wasn’t the enemy, nor was his Headmaster. You’re just being rude.”

“Oh, shut up.”

As the days continue to roll by, Darcy finds that there’s one person who understands her disappointment far better than anyone else in Hogwarts that she knows—Ron. Ron Weasley, who knows very much how it feels to be overshadowed by siblings and a famous best friend, who is very familiar with the taste of bitter disappointment, has been surprisingly soft with Darcy as of late. In fact, he’s been surprisingly soft with her ever since she’d confided her feelings to him on a whim one night after Quidditch practice as they’d been waiting for Harry to finish a conversation with Angelina Johnson. It had been a throwaway comment, something she hadn’t really meant to voice, but it had burst out of her without warning. Ron hadn’t seemed shocked in the slightest, and the two of them walked back up to the castle together.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m jealous of him,” Darcy had said quickly, feeling slightly awkward telling Ron these things. “I mean—I wish it were me dealing with this stuff sometimes just so Harry could live a normal life, but it’s not and that’s never going to change. But I thought I could be really good helping teach everyone—I mean, I graduated Hogwarts with good grades and I did well in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and—and I was there in the Chamber of Secrets—”

“You’re already a teacher, or have you forgotten?” Ron had joked, chuckling to himself. “Let Harry have this one. He needs it. But if it makes you feel better, I could use some help with Potions if you’re offering free tutoring…”

Darcy ignored him, thinking, as their long legs took them up the slope closer to the castle. “I’ve done things too, though.”

“Course you have, when you were able to,” Ron had glanced sideways at her, surveying her, adjusting the broomstick resting against his shoulder. “But none of us were there last June. Just Harry.”

It’s not that Darcy doesn’t think Harry can do it—on the contrary, she thinks Harry will be a great teacher. But part of her still wishes they’d have just let her do it. Darcy could have taught them things far beyond anything Harry has learned yet—jinxes and charms and hexes and defensive magic and non-verbal magic. It would have been nice to have people depend on her again, to need her, to admire her, to look forward to her lessons. The few classes she does teach a week in Potions don’t satisfy her completely, leaving her restless and eager for more. The first year students, as a whole, clearly aren’t as interested in Potions as she had been or as much as she wants them to be, and they only latch onto her because she keeps them from being taught by Snape.

Darcy returns to her senses to find Ron still grumbling under his breath about Viktor Krum. She rolls her eyes, reminded forcibly of Sirius and his muttering that annoys her so much. But Ron _is_ a fifteen-year-old boy, so Darcy thinks it’s best to just bite her tongue and let him rant.

* * *

To her delight, Professor McGonagall stops by Grimmauld Place the weekend before the gala to let her know a guard will be accompanying her. Gemma, who will be going separately to place as much distance between she and Darcy as possible, is delighted that Darcy’s allowed to go. Emily and Tonks, it seems, had been the very first volunteers, and Kingsley, ever able to blend in with a crowd, had been asked to accompany them, as well. There is one slight problem, however, that Darcy realizes almost immediately—“How am I going to get a dress if I can’t leave the house?”

Gemma offers to shop for her almost too quickly, and as Darcy gives her a sack of money, she also gives Gemma a serious look. “Nothing that’ll clash with my hair, something that covers my shoulder, and _no frills_.”

“No pink, no shoulder, no frills,” Gemma repeats, grinning as she pockets the money. “Got it.”

The idea of going to a gala excites her, and she waits restlessly for the rest of the day for Gemma to get back. Her leg bounces underneath the kitchen table as she and Sirius play a few rounds of chess (unfortunately, Sirius has no problem beating her terrible every time, not even bothering to let her win once), and after she tires of that, she shows Sirius how to play a few Muggle card games she’d picked up from Aunt Petunia.

Sirius, to her great displeasure, doesn’t seem very thrilled about Darcy going anywhere that isn’t Hogwarts or Grimmauld Place. Over a card game, he voices this to her, very bitterly.

“You don’t really want to go, do you? Gemma’s only making you go?”

“No,” Darcy replies indignantly. “If I didn’t want to go, Gemma wouldn’t make me—and Gemma can’t _make_ me do anything.”

Sirius rolls his eyes in a playful way, but it still angers Darcy.

“I want to go,” she tells him again, staring hard at him over her cards. “It’ll be fun.”

“You must have certainly enjoyed the garden party this summer if you’re craving a gala so badly,” Sirius retorts without looking up from his hand. Darcy scowls at him, anger surging through her. “There’s no Gavin this time to keep you company, Darcy. Maybe it would be better for you to stay here. If you’re interested in an adventure, I’ll send you out for food.”

_How much did they talk about Gavin and me while I wasn’t here_? “What does it matter to you who’s there?” she snaps, but Sirius is unbothered by her tone. “Don’t you dare talk about Gavin to me.”

“Why not?”

“Because he was my friend and they made him forget what I am,” Darcy continues, unsure of why the idea of Gavin upsets her so. It’s not like if she were to go back to Privet Drive he wouldn’t recognize her—but he wouldn’t know that she’s a witch, and that seems, to Darcy, a very important thing. While Gavin had been startled and frightened upon seeing everyone in the house and hearing them speak of seemingly impossible things, he had calmed down at Darcy’s reassurance. He had smiled at her like he always did, minutes before Kingsley had erased his memory of that night.

“He was nothing like us,” Sirius says. “Like you.”

Darcy’s jaw clenched. Her eyes are fixed on Sirius, apathetic and bored, and Darcy wonders if he’s only trying to get a rise out of her. But between managing her anger at Hogwarts, forcing herself to keep her head, the anger spills out of her now. “Like me? What is that supposed to mean?”

“He’s a Muggle,” Sirius explains slowly, as if she hadn’t already known this. “And was only interested in one thing it seems.”

“Like you know anything about Gavin except what Remus complained about, I’m sure.” Darcy throws her cards down and gets to her feet. Aiming to hurt, she adds, “You’re just like Professor Snape, saying things only to make me angry.”

“ _What_?” Sirius roars, waking his mother’s portrait. He, too, jumps to his feet, toppling over his chair in the process. “I’m _nothing_ like Snape! You’re still on about that, are you? You don’t know half of what he did in school—”

“Did he ever try to kill you?” Darcy asks, crossing her arms over her chest. The portrait shrieks her curses in the background, begging to be shut up.

“He would have when he found us in the Shrieking Shack! He would have in school, too, if he’d have been given the chance,” he growls. “He was so damn curious about what we were doing—maybe if he’d have just left us alone, I wouldn’t have indulged his curiosity!”

“You can be such a _child_ , Sirius,” Darcy says again, unable to stop now. “When are you going to grow up? Remus did—but you can’t seem to just acknowledge the fact that you’re an adult now—a grown man—”

“Forgive me,” he snarls, and his voice is more dangerous than Darcy’s ever known it to be. Even that night in the Shrieking Shack, his voice had been somewhat gentle towards her. “I’ve only spent how many years suffering in Azkaban because of that _rat_ —”

“That’s no excuse!” Darcy can’t stop the tears that well up in her eyes, and she wipes at them angrily with her sleeve. “We are _all_ suffering here, Sirius. I know that you’re hurting and I know that you suffered and I regret that we couldn’t have helped you sooner, but it’s not a competition, and it’s no excuse for the way you treated Snape at school.”

“Remus probably didn’t even tell you what Snape said to your mother, did he?” Sirius asks, and his question catches her off guard. Darcy isn’t sure she wants to know. “He called—”

“I don’t care what he said,” she says quickly, her heart pounding. And before Sirius decides to tell her anyway, Darcy escapes the kitchen, closing th curtains over Mrs. Black’s portrait, and locking herself in her room. But curiosity has come over her—what _did_ Snape say to her mother? Lupin had told her Snape was fond of Lily, that he even loved Lily...could it possibly be related to that? Or something far worse? Something that would change her mind about Snape? Something that would make her hate him all over again?

Snape had told her once that ignorance is bliss, and she can’t help agreeing with him. Maybe it’s best she never finds out.

Yet by midweek, Darcy begins to grow restless again. With the upcoming gala, Darcy feels too ready for the end of the week, and spending most of her time in the dank, dungeon classroom that is Snape’s, it doesn’t quite help her spirits. But it does pique her curiosity even more, and she sometimes finds herself staring suspiciously at Snape without realizing it. What was Sirius about to say that night? What had happened between Snape and her mother than Sirius could have possibly thrown in her face?

She wants to ask Snape—so, _so_ badly. She wants to hear whatever it is from _his_ lips before hearing it from Sirius’s. She knows that whatever it is, she’ll likely hear two completely different stories (if Snape ever decides to actually tell her, which he probably won’t), but she _needs_ to know.

With a free period before lunch on Thursday, Darcy spends it in the classroom with him, grading essays. For a little while, the only sounds are the flipping of paper, the bubbling of cauldrons. And then Darcy can’t help herself and begins to fill the silence.

“...and Gemma bought me a beautiful dress to wear—she really knows me so well and she got everything I wanted without me having to actually say it, and—” Darcy knows that she’s been rambling; she looks up to find Snape still going through some parchment, looking as if she’s not even in the room. “You’re not listening to me, Professor Snape.”

“Smythe bought you a dress and you’re in love with her because of it.” Snape looks up, bored. “I’m listening, but that doesn’t mean I particularly care about what it is you’re saying.”

Blushing, Darcy looks back down at the homework in front of her. “Oh. Sorry.”

She begins to wonder again about what Sirius had begun to say.

“Professor, I was wondering something,” she begins again, slowly, cautiously. Lifting her eyes again, Darcy blushes something fiercely when she finds Snape still looking at her. “Could I ask you something? And you must promise not to get mad at me.”

“If you feel you need me to make that promise, perhaps you shouldn’t ask your question,” Snape replies without hesitation. She knows he’s probably right, but it’s no secret that Snape nurses a soft spot for her and she means to act on that. Snape gives a heavy, irritated sigh. “Go on, Darcy.”

Darcy hesitates. She wishes she’d stop blushing. “It’s just that Sir—well, someone told me something, and I wanted to know what the story is.”

Snape’s black eyes seem to harden for a moment, and his face pales. “And what was it exactly that this someone told you?”

“He didn’t actually tell me, Professor,” Darcy explains clumsily, flushing scarlet. “It was just—he had mentioned you said something—something to my mother, and I was wondering if you knew—what he was referencing…”

There’s no mistaking the anger in Snape’s face now. His jaw is clenched, his teeth grinding together furiously. They look at each other for a long time, and Darcy’s sure he knows what she’s talking about—or what Sirius had been talking about, anyway. And she’s sure that Snape would rather she not hear this from Sirius’s mouth. “Get out,” he finally says, and his tone is hurtful and venomous.

But Darcy doesn’t move from her seat at the front desk. “I suppose I _could_ just ask Remus…” she says, hoping she hasn’t gone too far. A muscle twitches in Snape’s jaw. “I’m sure he’d tell me—”

“I’m sure whatever he would tell you wouldn’t be the truth,” Snape snarls at her, nearly baring his teeth. Darcy’s heart races in her chest. “I’m sure his version of events would be some fantasy of his to keep you hero-worshipping himself, your arrogant father and your good-for-nothing godfather. To keep you from knowing who he really was at school—a bully, a _coward_.”

Darcy frowns. “Remus was _not_ a bully.” But her stomach churns all the same, an uneasy feeling creeping over her as the words are spoken.

Snape’s scowl turns suddenly into a twisted sneer, triumphant. He palms the desktop, rising slowly to his feet. “Ah, I see,” he says. “In all the time you’ve spent with him, he’s never once told you what he was like at school?”

“He’s told me enough,” Darcy counters. “And he wasn’t a bully. He’s one of the kindest people I know.”

But it’s not entirely the truth. While Lupin had never been particularly secretive with her, conversation about himself during his boyhood had always ended strangely. While he had never had trouble recalling a particular prank, or a funny and innocent story about James or Sirius, Darcy remembers him always being quite sheepish when asked about himself. Whenever she’d ask about him in Hogwarts, as far as she can recall, the conversation would end quickly with a few well-placed kisses and deft work with his slender fingers.

“You’re lying.” Darcy bristles, not wanting Snape to notice her hesitation. “You just want to turn me against him. He wouldn’t lie to me. If I asked him, he’d tell me the truth.” She swallows hard. “Unless you’d rather just tell me yourself.”

Snape scrunches his nose. “Not today.”

“Another day, Professor?” She gives him the saddest look she can muster, pleased to see his face soften very slightly. Darcy doesn’t think that she’s going to get much more out of him, so she asks, “Do you want to hear the color of my dress? It’s a pretty blue color, and from the waistline up, there’s embroidery with small pink and white flowers…”

* * *

Darcy decides not to press the issue. Snape had maybe, possibly, in his own odd way, promised to tell her one day, and she’ll wait until then. Neither she nor Sirius speak of it when she arrives at Grimmauld Place that Friday night. In fact, upon finding the house completely empty save for Sirius, Darcy retreats to her bedroom and falls asleep almost immediately.

There’s much more noise in the house Saturday morning. When Darcy makes her way downstairs for breakfast that morning, she finds Emily and Tonks already in the kitchen, serving up a hefty plate of food to Sirius. Darcy lingers in the threshold, watching Emily smile sweetly at him, blushing slightly when Sirius gives her a muttered ‘thank you’.

Emily flashes an annoyed look at Darcy when Sirius notices her enter the kitchen, a wide smile gracing his face. “Darcy,” he smiles. “When are Remus and Gemma getting here?”

Darcy gives a tired shrug, sitting down beside him. “Why is Remus going to be here?”

Sirius’s face darkens. “He’s going to the gala, isn’t he?”

Darcy blinks in surprise. “What?”

“Good morning, my little lion,” comes a voice from the kitchen doorway. Darcy turns in her seat to see Gemma beaming, and Lupin looking over her shoulder into the kitchen, looking irritable. “Em, get me some breakfast, would you?”

Both Gemma and Lupin are clearly windswept, their cheeks and noses still red from the biting cold, scarves wrapped around their chins and mouths, hair disheveled. Lupin’s carrying several paper bags while Gemma holds only one. Darcy peeks curiously into them, but Lupin heads upstairs with the bags and Gemma slides hers underneath the table, gratefully taking her breakfast plate from Emily.

* * *

“I feel like we’re all getting ready for prom,” Emily says excitedly, wriggling in her chair.

Gemma exchanges a nervous look with Darcy. “What the fuck is prom?”

“Never mind,” Emily grumbles. “Anyway, who asked Lupin to go? Did you, Gemma? I mean, I thought it would be a good girls night, and Kingsley will stay out of our way.”

“As if I’m going to be caught dead talking to Darcy tonight—no offense, Darcy. But Lupin said that Dumbledore asked him privately to go,” Gemma says, a cigarette between her lips and her brow furrowed as she plucks furiously at Emily’s eyebrows. “No doubt Dumbledore wants another responsible adult there.”

“Hermione said he just wants to go with me,” Darcy sighs, stroking her chin and examining the gown on the bed closely. “When I told her he wanted people to go with me.”

“He didn’t want to go at all,” Gemma replies, making Emily yelp as she plucks again. “Sorry, Em—but beauty is pain. Anyway—he made that part very clear. Good thing he’s around the same size as my dad, though. Getting him dress robes was no problem, but we had to lengthen them. His ankles were sticking out. He needed shoes, too—that’s why we went out today. And I couldn’t _not_ buy more trinkets at that market.”

Darcy turns slightly to face Gemma. Almost breathlessly, Darcy asks, “Does he look _so_ good?”

She sees Emily’s reflection in the mirror scrunch her nose, but Gemma pauses, lifting her head to grin wickedly at Darcy. “He looks pretty good.”

“Damn him.” Darcy turns back to her dress, and then finding herself unable to look at it any longer. She steps up beside Emily, looking at herself, clad in her pants and bra. Fingering the scars upon her shoulder out of habit, Darcy takes a moment to look herself over. She’s sure she’s at the heaviest weight she’s ever been—she’d eaten so much of Mrs. Weasley’s food over August, and with being fed regularly at Hogwarts, Darcy doesn’t think she’s ever seen herself look so healthy. She even looks a bit less like her gangly father; Darcy’s hips have begun to fill out, her breasts straining against her bra now. But her face is still sharply angled and long, just like James—her long nose and thin cheeks, pointed chin and all.

Darcy sits down at the desk, sorting through the many different colors of nail polish Emily had brought them. She settles with a gold color, shaking it furiously. “I’m nervous,” she confesses. “Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I was just getting cocky.”

“Why should you be nervous?” Emily asks curiously, letting out a low growl as Gemma manhandles her face. “We’ll go, drink a little bit, people watch, and be back by midnight.”

Gemma stands up straight, admiring her work on Emily’s red and swelling eyebrows, puffing on her cigarette. “Besides, you can’t ditch Oliver Wood. I told him you were going.”

“Why?” Darcy hisses, smearing nail polish all over her skin. She gives Gemma an incredulous look. “Why would you tell him that? Why did you invite him?”

“He stopped by St Mungo’s for a recheck after that Quidditch accident I told you about,” Gemma shrugs, smiling. “When he asked about you, I told him he could find out himself at the gala.”

Darcy blushes, cleaning up her mess, her nose very close to her nails. A few quiet minutes later, Tonks enters the room asking Emily for help getting ready, and they both leave Gemma and Darcy alone in her bedroom, only half dressed. Gemma has Darcy sit at her feet while she drags a comb through her long, red hair.

“If you’re going to grow your hair out, Darcy, you must brush it,” Gemma chuckles as Darcy yelps when the teeth of the comb catch on a knot. “Listen, you know I won’t have much time with you tonight, and I’m sure you don’t want to spend most of your time with Tonks, who’ll likely be at Emily’s side all night, and in case things get awkward with Lupin—I invited Oliver so you’d have someone to be with.”

When Gemma puts it that way, the idea of Oliver Wood attending the gala makes Darcy feel better about the whole thing. “Thank you,” she smiles, feeling breathless. She can’t understand why she’s so nervous, why the idea of a gala frightens her so. Perhaps it’s the unknown. After all, a wizarding gala will be much different from a Muggle garden party, and though Gavin won’t be there to flatter her, it would be nice to see Oliver again, to catch up and maybe have someone to dance with should the opportunity arise. “Tell me I’m being ridiculous. Everything will be fine, right?”

“Of course it will be,” Gemma says soothingly, dragging her nails through Darcy’s hair. She puts the comb aside. “How do you want your hair?”

“Surprise me. Make me beautiful.”

“I can do that.” Gemma begins to work her magic with Darcy’s hair, using both her hands and wand, twisting and pulling and pinning, revealing the nape of Darcy’s neck. “Look, Darcy—I know that you weren’t expecting Lupin to come, but this could be a good thing. I mean, the moment you walk down those stairs and he sees you, he’ll be rethinking why he even left you in the first place.”

“Gemma—”

“Just get a few drinks into him, ask him to dance, and he’ll be yours again by the end of the night—”

“Gemma, I don’t think—”

“Just have fun tonight,” Gemma continues, ignoring Darcy completely. “When it’s over, we’ll come back here and get so drunk that we won’t even remember the gala in the morning.”

Darcy only smiles and nods, checking her watch. She wonders if Harry, Hermione, and Ron have had their meeting in Hogsmeade, wonders how many people went to hear them out, wonders if everything had gone okay. She wishes she could’ve been there, but this is important to her too, and by Friday morning, Harry and his friends had been insisting she go to the gala. Hermione had glowed with excitement when she’d spoken with Darcy before breakfast, and Harry and Ron (while not as excited) had thought it a good idea.

An hour later, Darcy and Gemma stand in front of the mirror, unable to stop smiling. Gemma fidgets with her many earrings. Darcy’s hair is set with an elaborate braid, the rest of her long hair pulled back at the base of her neck, a few strands framing her thin face. The neckline on her gown is modest, with a sharp and narrow plunge down her back to reveal her spine and shoulder blades. Her shoulders hidden from view, Darcy feels half beautiful, yet somehow very plain next to Gemma.

Gemma is radiant, her dark hair pinned up to make her long neck seem even longer, her lips stained a bright red. Her gown is strapless, the bodice a shimmering silver and the skirt an emerald green. “All right,” she says, flattening the front of her dress. “Let me get your mask. Then we have to take a good long look at each other so we can spot each other easily in a crowd.”

Darcy slips her mask on. It limits her vision greatly, and she feels slightly uncomfortable about not being able to see to her left and right. Her’s is a light shade of pink to match the embroidery on her dress, and Darcy doesn’t pay too much attention to Gemma’s flashy green one. She doesn’t need to remember her mask to be able to spot Gemma in the crowd. “A picture,” she adds quickly, reaching for her camera. “Of the two of us. The first picture for my new photo album.”

Finally, after a few pictures and last minute touching up and adjusting, Gemma opens the bedroom door zoot Darcy. Her heart is fluttering, afraid to be seen in such a gown, embarrassed that other people will have to look on her. She stands frozen for a moment, clutching her mask tightly in her hands.

Gemma sighs, tapping her own mask against her thigh. “Come on, Darcy, it’ll be fine,” she urges. “It’s time to go.”

Darcy swallows hard. “Do I—do I look all right? I mean, do I look ridiculous?”

“No,” Gemma laughs. “You look so beautiful, Darcy. Come on. Everyone is waiting for us.” When Darcy still doesn’t move, Gemma sighs heavily again, moving forward and touching Darcy’s shoulders. “Darcy, everything will be fine, I promise. Just enjoy the evening. It’s going to be so much fun.”

“I’d feel a lot better if we were able to be there together,” Darcy confesses.

“Emily and Tonks will be there, and Oliver,” Gemma smiles weakly. “And no matter how much Lupin doesn’t want to be there, he’ll keep you company.”

“What if they know who I am?” Darcy whispers, panic flooding her. “What if they realize Remus is there? What if someone is watching for us?”

“No one will know who you are with your mask on,” Gemma says. “Everything will be fine, Darcy.” With another exasperated sigh and without warning, Gemma kisses Darcy gently. It does what it’s supposed to, Darcy thinks—it puts her fears at ease, unclouding her mind for the time being. Gemma chuckles again, giving Darcy a slight shake. “It’s all going to be okay. Now, come on.”

Gemma coerces Darcy from the bedroom, and they make their way down the stairs, holding their gowns and trying to keep from waking Mrs. Black’s portrait. There’s a hushed muttering coming from the narrow entrance hall, where everyone is already waiting.

“Finally,” Lupin says when he catches sight of Gemma round the corner and make her way down the last few steps. “What took you so long? Where’s Darcy?”

Darcy peeks around the corner. Lupin has returned to his conversation with Tonks, whose hair is a rich brown and hanging low down her back in loose waves, clad in a long-sleeved red dress. Gemma joins Emily and Kingsley, passing everyone their small, shimmering, golden tickets.

Standing up tall and gathering all of her courage, Darcy walks into view, trying to seem as casual and relaxed and confident as possible, as if she’s wearing nothing but jeans and a sweater. Lupin is about to take a ticket from Tonks’s hand when he catches sight of Darcy, looking up quickly and fixing her with a wide-eyed look.

“Darcy,” comes Sirius’s voice. He walks slowly from the kitchen to the foot of the stairs. His eyes are bright and shining in the light of the gas lanterns. “Sometimes I forget how much you’ve grown.”

“I’m not four-years-old anymore,” Darcy answers sheepishly, blushing furiously.

“We’ll go in pairs,” Kingsley tells them quickly. “Gemma will go ahead first, alone. Emily, Tonks—you’ll leave after her. Remus, give us a few minutes’ headstart before bringing Darcy. I’ll follow you.”

Everyone begins to shuffle around the hallway to stand beside their partners and in the correct order. Darcy tries hard to avoid looking at Lupin. Gemma had been wrong—he doesn’t look _pretty_ good, he looks so handsome that just looking at him is enough to make her blush. The dress robes make him look broad in the shoulder—they make him look strong.

“You look very pretty tonight,” Lupin murmurs when Gemma closes the front door behind her.

Darcy’s entire face flushes and she looks away, hiding her face from him. “I’m sorry you have to come,” she says. “I know you don’t want to go.”

Lupin exhales through his nose. “You can understand why I’m apprehensive.”

“For the same reason I’m so nervous I might throw up?” Darcy asks, laughing very weakly. “I don’t want anyone to know that I’m there.”

“That’s the plan,” Lupin replies, looking at her and raising his eyebrows as Emily and Tonks leave the house. Darcy and Lupin take a few small steps forward. “Why did you want to go in the first place?”

Breathlessly, Darcy admits, “I have no idea.”

They chuckle softly, and Darcy finally feels comfortable enough to look him in the eyes. “It could be the best night of my life.”

“Do you think so?” Darcy asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

“No, not at all.” He gives her a toothy grin, and Darcy can’t help but to smile back. “I have no doubt that I will drink heavily when I get back in order to forget it all.”

“Gemma said the same thing. I’m completely in support of this idea,” Darcy teases. Kingsley tells them to go, and Lupin opens the door for her. They both put their masks back on their faces. “Though my idea involved me starting to drink much earlier.”

“ _Someone_ must be responsible for you,” Lupin says, closing the front door behind him and squeezing onto the front step with Darcy. “I know what you’re like when you have access to an unnecessary amount of alcohol.”

“How so?” she asks again, amused.

“You become unbearably cute.” Lupin takes her hands in his, squeezing tight.

Darcy feels she can hardly breathe. Looking past his mask and into his eyes, she manages to gasp, “Stay close to me.”

Lupin smiles. “Always.” Darcy feels him take over before she can answer, Disapparating away from Grimmauld Place and taking her with him. 


	24. Chapter 24

The walk up the drive is very long. Flickering candles hover in the air, surrounded by multi-colored shades. It throws Darcy and Lupin into soft, warm lighting—reds and pinks and oranges, making it seem as though the sun is setting against an inky black sky littered with stars. To either side of them are beautifully trimmed hedges in the shapes of magical creatures; Darcy spots a hippogriff right away, rearing on its hind legs, a centaur with a leaf bow in his hands.

They aren’t the only ones making their way up the drive, either. At least fifty or so witches and wizards push past them, looking spectacular. Darcy wraps her fingers around Lupin’s bicep, squeezing closer to him, privately very grateful he doesn’t object. No one pays the two of them any mind (except one woman probably twice her age with a thick French accent who compliments Darcy’s dress kindly).

These people are dressed far more outrageously than Darcy could have imagined, however. Every one of their faces are covered with a mask—some cover their whole face while others leave their nose and lips exposed; there are masks that shine bright in the candlelight, the orange glimmer catching expensive looking jewels set in their masks and making them look magical. Every woman in sight seems dressed in a ball gown even prettier than the last to catch Darcy’s eye, and most of them are bright colors—pink, yellow, a violent purple that reminds Darcy of the Knight Bus. While the men are dressed a little tamer, their robes are still magnificent things. Gemma had given Lupin plain robes, black ones that shimmer red when seen in the right lighting, but many other wizards have gone for patterns—stars and moons that sparkle against midnight blue; pale golden embroidery twisting all over robes of a pretty lavender shade; gold suns with faces patterned up and down cream colored robes. A few dress more conventionally (Lupin tells her in a low voice it’s an easy way to point out who likely spends more time around Muggles just by the state of their outfit), making Darcy feel slightly better. She’s thankful Gemma didn’t make her wear anything too out of place.

But Darcy’s favorite thing is the hats. Not that she particularly wants one, but she’s never seen so many different hats in one place. The women at Gavin’s aunt’s garden party had worn modest hats, mostly to add an accessory to their expensive party dresses and to keep the setting sun from blinding them. These hats are clearly meant to represent money and status. Some hats seem to threaten to topple over, so high they stand on women’s heads. Others have feathery wings that stretch out to show off their length and color; there’s one hat that sings when the wearer walks past Darcy with a smile—some men wear bowler hats not unlike Cornelius Fudge, or else top hats that seem to twist and turn of their own accord atop the men’s heads, and some people don’t wear hats at all.

As the manor comes into view, Darcy lets out an audible gasp. She’s never seen such an enormous house, nor such a beautiful one. It’s far bigger than Gavin’s aunt’s house had been—this is a proper manor, warm and inviting, with candles burning in the windows and lively music drifting out from the double doors that stand open at the front. Darcy’s heart begins to pump harder as the crowd slows down by the entrance doors, and her fingers tighten around Lupin’s arm as he fishes out their tickets from his pocket. When they step under the awning that extends above the landing just before the doors, Darcy feels slightly claustrophobic. The babble and chatter from the witches and wizards around them is cheerful and loud, as two large wizards check tickets and allow people through.

“I’m nervous,” Darcy whispers in Lupin’s ear. “Please, I’m so nervous—”

Lupin shakes her arm off him as he hands a hefty wizard the two tickets, wrapping his fingers around her hand instead. It brings Darcy indescribable comfort, and she notices Lupin’s cheeks turn slightly pink underneath his mask.

The inside of the manor is overwhelming. Some couples linger in the high-ceilinged foyer, a fire roaring in a hearth large enough for six or seven people to stand comfortably shoulder to shoulder. Just beyond the foyer, in through an open door off to the side, Darcy sees what seems to be a dining room; busy house-elves run back and forth with serving dishes, replenishing snacks and food that have been eaten and adding more all the time to the five long trestle tables already covered with six different kinds of sandwiches, a gluttonous amount of cheese (though Darcy makes a mental note to return to the cheese platters), grapes and figs and berries and bread, small slices of meat, prawns with glasses full of sauce, bacon-wrapped scallops, crackers topped with a white spread and tomatoes and capers, deviled eggs drizzled with honey, some kind of cheese stuffed puff, mushrooms filled with something Darcy can’t place. Some more guests linger in there, licking their fingers and laughing, enjoying the perfectly cooked and assembled foods.

Past the side room and into a large ballroom not quite as large as the Great Hall at Hogwarts, but large enough. Darcy pulls Lupin into the room by the hand, looking around. This is where most of the guests are, clearly enjoying themselves; more house-elves swim through the crowd, holding up trays of champagne or wine or what looks like punch, the trays seemingly floating on their own at first glance. Up at the front of the ballroom, a small stage has been raised, the flooring of it marble to match the ballroom floor. There, a band plays dancing music, the singers an energetic witch and wizard wearing matching masks. The middle of the floor is cleared as several couples dance, clearly practiced. Darcy stands on her toes to see over the heads of everyone, spotting Gemma almost immediately, hanging off the arm of a sporting young man with long, light brown hair pulled back into a small ponytail and tied with a red ribbon.

When the song ends, Gemma takes the stage, smiling beautifully on stage and holding the tip of her wand lazily to her throat. There’s a smattering of polite applause, louder applause from a group of witches near the stage.

“Thank you all for coming,” Gemma says happily, looking around the ballroom. “I’ll keep this quick—my name is Gemma Smythe, and I’m a medi-witch for St Mungo’s Hospital, and I have created a potion that eases the symptoms of lycanthropy before and after the full moon. As stated upon the invitations, all proceeds from any donations tonight will go to the funding of our new potion, which will be available to the public starting the first of the new year. Each donation made to support the distribution and sale of it will keep the cost down.” There’s some murmuring at this, and more applause. Gemma takes a deep breath, still smiling. “In times such as these, we must all look past the prejudice to remember who the true enemy is—”

“ _No_ ,” Lupin hisses in Darcy’s ear. “What is she doing? She’s going to get herself into trouble.”

Gemma looks around as everyone digests her words. “We must remember the real difference between man and beast, and what determines a good person from a bad one.”

“She’s going to get herself killed,” Lupin groans, and he stretches his free hand in the air under the guise of fixing his hair. However, it catches Gemma’s attention, and Lupin gestures angrily and subtly for her to cut it out. “Stupid girl,” he sighs, shaking his head.

Quickly, Gemma puts an end to it. “And I’d just like to take a moment to thank my friends, whom I love dearly, and without whom I would have never been able to create this potion, nor would I have received the support to continue when things got frustrating.”

Gemma slips off stage and there’s more applause. Darcy and Lupin clap enthusiastically for her as the band takes the stage again. Witches and wizards flood the dance floor, and Darcy gets shuffled backwards a few steps to make room for them.

“Er—” Darcy clears her throat, rubbing the back of her neck. “Would you like to dance?”

Lupin hesitates, shifting awkwardly on his feet and looking around the room. “Not particularly.”

Darcy nods, blushing. “Do you...want to go make out in an empty room?”

He looks at her, bewildered, the bottom half of his face a brilliant red. When Lupin answers, his voice is much higher than it had been. “Darcy, while it is a very... _tempting_ offer, I—I, er—we shouldn’t.”

Scoffing, Darcy frowns. “You said I was cute when I was drunk, and you held my hand. Is making out really crossing such a line?”

“I was nervous, all right? I’m sorry.”

Darcy chews her bottom lip, her stomach knotting. How badly she wants to drag him into an empty room and kiss him hard, kiss him until he forgets why he ever wanted to stop kissing her. “I think I’ll just go get some food.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Lupin asks.

“No, I think I can manage.”

As she walks away from him, Darcy can hear Lupin sighing. She takes her time wandering out of the ballroom, looking for someone familiar. Emily and Tonks are nowhere to be seen, and Darcy wishes Tonks would turn her hair pink or purple or something that would attract her own notice. Out in the foyer, Darcy finds Kingsley drinking wine in a corner, admiring a large portrait of a smiling witch. The frame is at least ten feet tall and five feet wide, taking up most of the wall space on the one side of the hearth.

“Hi, Kingsley,” Darcy smiles, joining him. He gives her a warm smile in return, turning away from the portrait. “Have you been to things like this before?”

“A few,” he answers. “Nothing quite as extravagant as this.” But from his tone, this isn’t a bad thing. “Why don’t you do some exploring? Try some food? Surely you don’t want to waste the night by my side.”

“All right,” Darcy replies bashfully. “Thank you for coming tonight.”

“You’re welcome, but I didn’t come to watch you meander around like a lost puppy. Go have fun.”

Darcy sighs, entering the dining room. It’s much bigger than she’d originally thought, and the tables are still covered with food thanks to the house-elves. Darcy grabs a plate and begins to look through all the food; thankfully, a squeaky little house-elf tells Darcy what everything is and what pairs well with what drinks. She decides to just take a little bit of almost everything, looking around again and hoping for a friendly face. Making her way back to the foyer and standing before the fire, closely examining her bacon-wrapped scallop, Darcy feels hot breath against her neck and tenses, her heart stopping.

“I’d recognize that hair anywhere,” a familiar voice chuckles. Chills shoot down her exposed spine. “Good evening, Darcy.”

Whirling, Darcy only hesitates for a moment. Even with a mask on, there is no mistaking those white teeth bared in a charming smile, the brown whiskers covering his jaw, his thick neck and broad shoulders. “Oliver,” she says breathlessly, grinning. “I—I’m so glad you’re here.” With her plate in one hand, Darcy gives him a one-armed hug and Oliver presses a chaste kiss to her cheek before she pulls away.

“The scallops are delicious,” Oliver smiles. “I’ve just had about a hundred.”

“I’ve never had one,” Darcy tells him, looking down at the scallop on her plate. “Is it bad that I’m nervous about trying it? Why’s it all squishy?”

“Just eat it,” he laughs, picking up between his fingers and holding it up for her. “Darcy, try it, I promise you, it’s delicious.”

Against her better judgement, Darcy takes a small bite from the scallop, shaking her head, and Oliver bursts out laughing at her reaction. “Why is it so _chewy_?” she asks, chewing very slowly and forcing herself to swallow. Darcy almost gags when Oliver eats the rest of it without complaint. “You’re a liar—that was terrible.”

“You just don’t have good taste,” Oliver teases. He looks definitely handsome—his brown hair is combed to the side, slightly longer than she remembers from Hogwarts. His jaw has gotten stronger, squarer, and though his arms are hidden beneath his robes, Darcy images they’re even thicker than they’d been last she saw them. He’s nearly eye level with her, especially with her heels on, and Darcy is very glad he doesn’t make a joke of her height. “Are you, er—are you here with anyone?”

Darcy blushes. “Well, you know, I’m here with people, but I’m not here _with_ anyone, you know—”

“Gemma told me you’d be here. She also told me it was supposed to be some huge secret you were here,” he shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck with embarrassment. “Do you want to dance?”

She can’t help but to smile. “I’d love to, actually.”

Oliver’s smile widens. “Yeah? All right, come on.”

He takes the plate from her hand and places it on a silver serving platter that passes, carried by an overweight house-elf. Taking Darcy by the hand, Oliver pulls her back into the ballroom, and she shoots Lupin a furtive look, surprised to see that he’s not alone. If Darcy wasn’t familiar with the dress, she wouldn’t have known it was Tonks, talking into his ear. Lupin’s eyes follow Darcy across the ballroom floor, his face turning in order to see her better.

“Before we start, I need you to know that I’m not a very good dancer,” Darcy warns him, smiling when his hand comes to rest on her waist. She squeezes his free hand tight, her right hand resting on his shoulder.

“I’m sure you’re only being modest,” Oliver teases, leading her off with a long step. He’s clumsy at times, not at all graceful on the ground like he is in the air, but he’s _fun_. Oliver twirls her, laughing when her gown hits other dancers (thankfully, they only laugh along with her), dips her nearly to the ground, doesn’t stop smiling at her. He’s very interested in her relationship with Ludo Bagman when she brings up the Yule Ball, and Darcy tells Oliver all kinds of little facts Ludo had shared with her about his Quidditch days. Beneath his mask, Darcy can see Oliver’s eyes flaming with his usual passion, and it nearly makes Darcy melt.

Oliver then tells Darcy nearly everything about Puddlemere United. “I’m only the reserve Keeper,” he says shyly, blushing furiously. Darcy finds it endearing. “But—you know—I’m still part of the team.”

“Ludo Bagman was a reserve Beater at first,” Darcy grins. “And he turned out to be an international Quidditch star. You’ll get me tickets when you play, won’t you?”

“When I’m an international Quidditch star, you can have free tickets for life,” Oliver promises.

They dance for what seems like hours—on the bright side, they seem to get better with each song. During fast songs, Oliver leads her with crazy steps, trodding on each other’s feet and laughing; during slower songs, the hand on Darcy’s waist moves to the small of her back to hold her close. She finds that she doesn’t mind being so close to him either—this is what Darcy had wanted, to have _fun_ , and Oliver shows her a good time. Once, Gemma passes them, her fingertips brushing against Darcy’s back, a lingering smile on her lips. Emily catches up with her once, too, looking excited as she dances with a lanky boy with dark hair.

“What have you been up to lately?” Oliver asks after a while, and his question surprises Darcy. She’d been resigned to hearing him talk about himself the entire night, not really upset about it, but she finds herself blushing furiously. “You haven’t gone into the Ministry, have you?”

“I’m at Hogwarts,” Darcy explains, feeling slightly ashamed. “I’m Professor Snape’s assistant, actually. It’s not so bad, though—I mean, he lets me teach the first years, and they’re lovely—most of them, anyway.”

Despite her embarrassment at this admission, Oliver is giving her a toothy grin. “Fantastic,” he beams.

“I—really?”

“Yeah,” Oliver says. “You were always amazing at Potions, long as I can remember. Bet you’re doing quite well if Snape hasn’t killed you yet.”

Flushing harder than she has all night, Darcy clears her throat. “I’m doing pretty well, I guess.”

“Harry still playing Quidditch?”

“Of course he is.”

“Good. Best damn Seeker Hogwarts has ever seen.”

They laugh again as the song comes to a close. His forehead damp with sweat and his hair falling into his eyes (or, it would be if he wasn’t wearing a mask), Oliver pulls away from her, still holding her hands gently in his. “Drink? I’m thirsty.” Looking uncomfortable, he leans forward to speak in her ear. “Maybe we could find a place to talk privately?”

“A drink sounds wonderful,” Darcy sighs, looping her arm around his and letting Oliver lead her through the many guests, many of whom are still dancing. “Dare I ask why you’re trying to get me alone?”

Throwing her a wicked and amused smile over his shoulder, the fresh night air hits them full in the face in the cavernous foyer. Darcy spots Lupin and Kingsley talking and drinking by the entrance, and she quickly turns away as Lupin catches her eye. “It’s a secret, isn’t it? That you’re here?” Oliver whispers, picking up two glasses of champagne from a passing house-elf. They cheer each other, clinking their glasses together. “Maybe I want to see your face properly before I forget what you look like.”

“Maybe I’m still trying to determine whether or not you deserve to see my face,” Darcy teases, grinning as she sips her champagne.

“I absolutely don’t deserve to,” Oliver laughs heartily, and his laugh is so contagious it makes Darcy laugh with him. He hardly seems the boy she’d known at Hogwarts—instead, he seems older, grown up, slightly reminiscent of Gavin. “But I’d like to see your face anyway. Come on.”

Darcy and Oliver finish their glasses of champagne and Oliver holds her hand, pulling her through the double doors and into the night. The hair on the back of her neck stands up, and Darcy can feel Lupin’s eyes fixed upon her, but she forces herself not to look back. She’s having such a good time with Oliver, she’d hate to ruin it by sharing a single look with Lupin. A single look would be all it takes for her to run back to him, leaving Oliver, treating him like she had in their last year.

They walk through the candlelit gardens, coming across a few stray couples in the courtyard, but finding themselves alone as they press past the hedges and fountain, into a labyrinth of green. They talk idly of Oliver’s last girlfriend, who had left him after he chose Quidditch over her, of funny stories from their days at Hogwarts, about Snape. It gives her chills, reminding her of the maze Harry had gone into back in June, only for him to come back out with Cedric’s dead body. “Are you cold?” Oliver asks quickly, noticing her shivers.

“No,” Darcy says, opening and closing her right hand, looking up at the stars. “No, I just—I’m just remembering the Triwizard Tournament. I’m sorry, I—” She trails off when Oliver reaches for her hand again, lacing their fingers together.

“You’re safe here,” he whispers, and Darcy can’t find any words to say, nodding instead. Looking mildly uncomfortable again, Oliver gives a nervous laugh. “Can I ask you something? And if you don’t want to answer, then I won’t make you, it’s just…”

“What is it?”

“Right,” Oliver gives a false cough, clearing his throat loudly. Darcy giggles. “It’s just…I mean, I saw in the _Daily Prophet_ …you and Professor Lupin?”

Darcy feels her cheeks sting with embarrassment. “Yes,” she breathes, wishing they could be talking about anything other than this. “It’s a long and complicated story, and I just want you to know that we’re—I mean, he left me back in June, and I—”

“He left you? He must be a nutter.” Oliver stops walking abruptly. They’re deep into the garden now, the music still audible, but very faint. Darcy assumes there’s another fountain nearby, for she can hear the trickling if water coming from the other side of the hedges that press close around them. He continues to hold her hands when they face each other, his thumbs brushing over her knuckles.

Darcy looks down at their hands. “You believe him, don’t you? Harry?”

Oliver scoffs quietly, as if that’s the most ridiculous question she could have possibly asked. “Of course I believe Harry.”

A clock somewhere chimes midnight. Darcy waits for it to stop, not bothering to pull her hands away from Oliver. “I’m really glad you’re here,” she says. “I’m having so much fun—and to think, I thought I wouldn’t have any and I thought I’d be much drunker by now.”

Oliver only smiles, his thumbs still stroking her fingers absent-mindedly.

“Did you know I was having a mental breakdown seventh year?” she asks curiously.

“I knew there was something off, but I wouldn’t say you were having a mental breakdown.”

“I’m so sorry for what I did to you,” she whispers, squeezing his hands right. “I was _so_ in love with him, and I never meant to—I never wanted to hurt you.”

Oliver raises his eyebrows. “We do crazy things when we’re in love,” he answers breathily, with a small smile.

Darcy can’t argue with that logic. “Take your mask off. I want to look at you.”

He chuckles and reaches up to take his mask off, revealing his face. Gemma was _right_ —he has gotten far more handsome, looking much more rugged and older. Darcy’s eyes rove his face, her heart beating far too quickly, quicker than it ever has around him. She misses his hands holding hers, and Darcy reaches out to touch his shoulders, to feel the muscle beneath his dress robes. Oliver’s chest heaves as her fingers trail down it, and he touches her own mask, slowly lifting it to let it rest atop her head. She allows his hands to touch her face, brushing stray hair out of her eyes.

“You are so beautiful, Darcy,” Oliver whispers, making her smile again, and leaning in tantalizingly slowly to kiss her.

Darcy kisses him back eagerly. He’s gotten better, she thinks, much better. He keeps his tongue in his mouth, and the kiss isn’t wet like she remembers, leaving the skin around her mouth damp with saliva. In fact, Darcy thinks this is probably the most tender and gentle and loving kiss they’ve ever shared—it isn’t greedy or hungry, but pure. When Oliver’s tongue finally does brush against hers, it’s welcome—it’s curious and hesitant, and it makes fireworks explode in her stomach. He pulls away, his arms sneaking around her to hold Darcy to him, his cheek pressed against hers, the scratchy feel of his growing beard far too comforting than it has any right to be.

Burying her face in his warm neck, Darcy closes her eyes. The kiss has given her impure thoughts—images of his hands trailing up and down her body, fingers touching the most sensitive of places. She had been too shy, too polite, to tell him how to touch her in school, but she’s not a little girl anymore. Darcy feels she’d have no problem bossing Oliver around in bed now. But another thought strikes her as odd, a thought she’s never really had before in regards to Oliver—she wants to make him feel _good_.

But even if she were to do anything with Oliver, why would he want to be with _her_? Oliver has never held her after a nightmare, doesn’t understand the depths of her sorrows, doesn’t know what being with her would entail. How would she ever explain about Sirius? About the Order? About Hogwarts and Umbridge and Snape? “Oliver?” she murmurs against his skin. He hums in response. “I’m…complicated.”

He laughs softly, a laughter that echoes deep in his chest. “Darcy Potter,” he whispers in her hair. “I’ve always known you were complicated. It’s never bothered me any.”

“Oliver?”

“Hm?”

“Will you kiss me again?”

Oliver’s lip touch her temple, her cheek, and he lifts her head from his shoulder to kiss her in earnest again. His rough fingertips trail down the bare skin on her back, coming to rest on the small of her back, keeping her close. Darcy drapes her arms around his neck, letting him deepen the kiss—

“Darcy! We’ve been looking everywhere for— _oh_.”

Darcy and Oliver break apart, blushing furiously, their masks still on top of their heads. Emily, Tonks, Kingsley, and Lupin are standing at the opening of two thick hedges. Oliver hums again, curious. “Emily, is that you?”

“Yeah!” Emily grins, lifting her mask. “Puddlemere treating you all right?”

“Yeah, they are.”

“Good,” Emily says. “You ready to go, Darcy?”

Darcy nods slowly, turning back to Oliver, feeling awkward with several people watching her. “I’m sorry,” she chuckles nervously, trying to keep her voice low. “I had a really good time tonight.”

“Listen, Darcy,” Oliver whispers, casting a wary glance at the group of people waiting for her. He puts his lips to her ear. “Do you want to come home with me?”

Darcy thinks that, by the end of the night, she’ll have blushed enough to last her a lifetime. She turns back to her friends. “Do you have to watch?” Darcy snaps. Emily and Tonks turn their backs on them, Kingsley steps away, and Lupin hesitates, but follows Kingsley. Looking back at Oliver, she sighs. “I want to, Oliver, believe me—but I…can’t tonight.”

Oliver seems disappointed, and Darcy’s stomach churns at the sight of his face. “All right.”

“But listen—I’m at Hogwarts Monday through Friday, and if you had time to meet me in the village for a drink or—or to stay a night or—you know—just to catch up—”

Oliver smiles again, his hands firm on her hips. “I have a few weeks until training starts up again,” he answers. “Let’s say—dinner on Monday at the Three Broomsticks?”

“Sounds great,” Darcy says truthfully. “I look forward to it.”

With a slight pause, he asks, “Should I book a room?”

Darcy traces her teeth with her tongue, trying to hide her smile and excitement. “Yeah,” she nods. “I’ll see you Monday.”

Oliver sighs contentedly, lowers Darcy’s mask again, and presses a lingering kiss to her lips. “Goodnight, Darcy,” he growls with a smirk, and Darcy stumbles away from him with a goofy smile stuck to her face, led away by Emily and Tonks. 


	25. Chapter 25

Their voices are loud enough to wake the sleeping Muggles that surround number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Even as they set foot over the threshold of Sirius’s house, the curtains that keep Mrs. Black hushed are thrown aside and her resounding shrieks fill the hallway, the typical insults and grievances ignored. The occupants of the house are all gathered in the kitchen at the end of the narrow corridor, listening with wide eyes as Darcy and Lupin spill into the hallway, shouting, and Lupin slams the door shut behind him.

“I’m only saying, you shouldn’t have gone off on your own,” Lupin growls at her, walking nearly on her heels as she moves away from him. Darcy stops abruptly to take her shoes off; Lupin’s chest hits her back hard and she stumbles, turning to scowl at him. “It was dangerous and reckless—what if someone had gotten to you while none of us were around? The entire point of us going was to keep you safe—”

“You don’t care that I went off by myself,” Darcy snarls in his face, dangerously close. “Don’t act like my safety was the most important thing to you tonight. You’re just mad that I went off with Oliver instead of hanging off your arm all night—”

Lupin blushes furiously, stammering like an adolescent boy. He crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head, unable to form a coherent sentence for a few moments. “That isn’t the point,” he finally says, though his cheeks remain slightly pink. Frustrated, he tears his mask off, letting it fall to the floor. “The point is, you’ve already wandered off once with some boy and that was the night dementors found their way to Privet Drive.”

“Nothing was going to happen,” Darcy protests, tearing her own mask off and taking the clips out of her hair, letting her braid unravel and her red hair to fall over her shoulders. “Oliver and I just wanted to speak privately for a little—”

“ _Speak privately_?” Lupin scoffs, laughing bitterly, following Darcy to the bottom of the stairs. She gives everyone a heated look and they quickly turn away, pretending to be too interested in each other’s conversation to listen to the exploding argument. “Did a lot of speaking, did you? I wonder when you found the time in between kissing him—”

Darcy climbs a few more stairs, letting out a frustrated, high-pitched, strangled noise when Lupin continues to follow her, gripping the railing so hard that his knuckles are white. She wishes he would at least take off his dress robes because they make him look so handsome, so distinguished, makes it hard to be truly mad at him—but Darcy isn’t sure having him strip down to other layers would help her position very much. When Lupin refuses to back down, she turns around again to face him, tears spilling from her eyes. “If you didn’t want me to kiss Oliver Wood, that’s all you had to say!” she shouts in his face, feeling herself growing warm.

“I—well, I—” Lupin stammers, tugging at the collar of his dress robes, looking pained and awkward. “You shouldn’t use him, Darcy—”

“ _Use_ him?” Darcy shrieks, laughing mirthlessly. They look at each other for a long time as Sirius quiets his mother’s portrait. He retreats quickly back into the kitchen, and Darcy takes a step towards Lupin, lowering her voice so as not to wake Mrs. Black again. “You think I was using him to make you jealous tonight?”

Lupin clenches his jaw, hesitating. Darcy is sure he knows he should stop talking, but—“You’ve done it before, haven’t you? You were the one who told me you thought of me while you were together, weren’t you?”

Darcy flushes a brilliant crimson. “That was nearly two years ago now, and I was _not_ using Oliver to make you jealous tonight,” she hisses, pleased to see Lupin shift uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding her eyes. “I’m allowed to kiss whoever I please, and if you don’t like it, then don’t watch—”

“I don’t want to see you hurt—”

“Is it so surprising to you that someone might actually like me and not just want to fuck me? Is it so surprising to you that I might actually like Oliver?”

“You’ve never liked Oliver—”

“What do you know about me and Oliver? You were at school with us for one year out of the seven that we spent together.” She shakes her head. “If you want to be the one to kiss me, then stop being such a coward and just say so!”

But he doesn’t. Lupin only looks at her, grinding his teeth, looking so incredibly pathetic. Darcy feels her heart shatter, privately having hoped he would have admitted to it—admitted to her face that he wanted to kiss her, to be the only one to kiss her. Darcy wipes furiously at the tears on her cheeks, turning and continuing up to her bedroom.

* * *

With tensions running high on Sunday, Grimmauld Place is not exactly a cheerful place to be. Gemma had come home very late from the gala, her lipstick smeared around her lips, happily telling Darcy (who was half-asleep, only barely listening) that she’d fucked the boy she’d been with the whole night. This confession only irritates Darcy, who wants nothing more than to sneak away to Lupin’s room and climb on top of him, kissing him and undressing him and loving him.

“Heard you had a good time with Oliver,” Gemma had whispered playfully, climbing into bed with Darcy. “Though, Lupin didn’t sound too happy about it when he told me.”

“I’m seeing him again Monday,” Darcy had mumbled back, before falling asleep again.

With Emily and Tonks gone and Gemma at St Mungo’s the next day, Darcy wishes Lupin had something to do for the Order so she isn’t stuck in the house with him and Sirius by herself. He watches her carefully every time they’re in the same room or pass each other on the stairs, and when Sirius asks about Oliver Wood, she only indulges him when Lupin enters the kitchen for some lunch.

“A boy from school,” she tells Sirius, trying hard to focus on the _Daily Prophet_ , but failing miserably. “An old boyfriend.”

Sirius smiles at her, but doesn’t ask anymore questions.

Several Order members arrive shortly afterwards while Darcy reads in the drawing room. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley arrive together, Kingsley returns after them, Lupin traipses down the stairs lazily to the kitchen, Mundungus Fletcher joins them, Gemma, Emily, and Tonks arrive together, and Professors McGonagall and Snape arrive at Headquarters together—Snape is laden with a black bag that he rests against the wall beside his traveling cloak. Darcy watches wistfully from the drawing room door, holding her book against her chest as they all file into the kitchen without a backwards look at Darcy. However, before Snape enters the kitchen and closes the door, he looks expectantly at her, as if waiting on an answer to a question he’s asked.

“What are you doing, standing there like a beaten pup?” Snape asks quickly, beckoning her closer. “Come, Darcy.”

“Really?” she grins, throwing her book down and running down the corridor to Snape’s side. His hand comes down hard upon the nape of her neck and he steers her into the kitchen, pushing her down into an empty chair and sitting on her left, Gemma on her right.

Darcy probably should have known something was off when not a single person protests about her attending the meeting, but she doesn’t begin to panic until Professor McGonagall looks right at Darcy and asks, in a voice of forced calm, “The truth now, Potter. Whose _insane_ idea was it to have your brother lead an army of students under Dolores Umbridge’s nose?”

There’s a deafening silence that follows this question. Darcy sits still in her chair, completely taken by surprise, completely unsure of how to even respond to that question. Her first thought is that it’s a little harsh to call Hermione’s idea insane, but then Darcy blushes upon realizing everyone is looking at her. She gives Gemma an accusing stare, but Gemma only shrugs her shoulders. Both Darcy and Gemma’s eyes fall on Lupin next, who shakes his head very slowly, unnoticed by the others.

“Mine,” Darcy says quickly. Professor McGonagall looks absolutely exasperated; Mr. Weasley takes his glasses off to rub his eyes tiredly; Snape makes an annoyed sort of grumble. When Darcy exchanges a glance with Sirius, she’s glad to see him looking positively delighted. “It was—it was my idea.”

Mr. Weasley closes his eyes. “Darcy—”

“My children better not have signed up for this!” Mrs. Weasley cuts in shrilly.

Still shooting daggers at her, nostrils flared and face stark white, Professor McGonagall looks almost ready to explode. “ _What_ ,” she begins, and Darcy shrinks back in her seat, “were you _thinking_? Sending a bunch of children to the Hog’s Head? Lucky Mundungus was keeping an eye on your brother…do you have any idea the possible consequences to your idea? To your actions? If _anything_ happens to those children because of this, you _will_ be held responsible, Potter, if the Ministry does not punish you first.”

“Personally, I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Sirius adds, beaming at his goddaughter, but his smile doesn’t make her feel much better. But she’s willing to do anything to keep Hermione from getting into trouble, to keep her from getting the brunt of everything, so she keeps her mouth shut. “You are truly like your father, aren’t you? These kids need to be able to defend themselves, and who better to teach them?”

“ _Teach_ them? Harry Potter teach magic against the Ministry’s wishes?” McGonagall roars, looking ready to have a heart attack at this news. “Darcy Potter, I am—I—is there anything else you’d like to share with us before I tell you what is going to happen with your little army?”

Darcy squirms in her seat, wondering if she should just tell Professor McGonagall the truth about everything. But she thinks maybe it would just be better for everyone to take McGonagall’s anger now and that way no one has to get into trouble and no one in the Order needs know they’re going to carry on with Defense lessons. Neither Gemma nor Lupin look ready to correct or stop McGonagall, giving Darcy some slight hope. “No, Professor,” Darcy says, lowering her eyes to her lap. “Nothing else.”

“You will put an end to this as soon as you return to Hogwarts tonight, do you understand me?” Professor McGonagall sighs. “The last thing we need are twenty-something students expelled and you in Azkaban for raising an army against the Ministry of Magic. For goodness sake, Potter, I thought you were smarter than this.”

Though it wasn’t even her idea in the first place, Professor McGonagall’s words make her stomach churn. How humiliating to be sitting here scolded like an eleven-year-old girl, with everyone watching. She’s very grateful when Snape clears his throat and speaks up. “If we’re finished, there are some things I must discuss with Darcy in private before she returns to Hogwarts…” He turns to face her. “Is there somewhere we might be able to speak alone?”

Darcy nods, getting to her feet. Snape follows suit. “Hang on,” Sirius barks, holding out a hand to keep Darcy from leaving. “Whatever you have to say to Darcy, I’m sure the rest of us should hear it, as well.”

“I thought this conversation would be better had privately,” Snape answers coldly, glancing quickly at Sirius. “Is there or is there not a private place, Darcy? Or will your godfather be trailing after us everywhere like the lapdog he is?”

Darcy sighs, rubbing her temples. “If we must be alone,” she tells Snape, exasperated and sorely missing the comforts of her own room at Hogwarts, “then the drawing room will be fine.” When she goes to lead them out, Snape casts her a curious look, grabbing the bag against the wall he’d deposited earlier. “Sirius won’t come in this room,” she explains in a whisper, out of earshot from everyone in the kitchen, leading Snape through the doorway into the dimly lit room.

Hurriedly cleaning up her mess of books stacked on the coffee table and the homework she’d finished grading a few hours ago off the sofa, Snape seats himself on the sofa, reaching into his pocket and digging around for something. Darcy fits the books back into their original places on the shelves, drinking the last of her lukewarm hot cocoa and pushing the mug out of the way.

“Whose idea was it, Darcy?” Snape looks into her eyes so intensely it makes her blush, looking away from him. “Not yours, certainly.”

“It was my idea,” she lies through gritted teeth.

“You’re a liar.”

“Did you see the _Prophet_ today?” she asks mildly, flopping down on the opposite side of the sofa and holding her knees to her chest. “Emily was able to get a small article published. Did you see it?”

“Congratulating you on donating a hefty sum of gold in support of werewolves.” Snape’s tone doesn’t impress her, and when he looks up, Darcy is scowling. “Yes, how touching.” He pulls a folded up piece of parchment out of his cloak, offering it out to her. “Umbridge so kindly delivered this to my office yesterday morning. The time and date of our inspections.”

Darcy’s heart sinks as she scans the parchment. “Tomorrow morning,” she says breathlessly, feeling panic gripping her deflated heart. “And—wait, that’s Harry’s class!” She lifts her eyes to meet Snape’s, holding the parchment still in trembling hands.

“It is _imperative_ that you do well and that you give Umbridge no reason to believe you are incompetent or incapable of teaching,” Snape continues, snatching the parchment from her fingers, crumpling it up, and tossing it into the burning fire over his shoulder. He purses his lips for a moment, then scoffs and says, “Sybil Trelawney has been put on probation by Umbridge.”

“Probation? But what does that mean? Has she been fired?”

“It means her classes will be monitored closely, that she will be—until such time as Umbridge seems fit to remove her from probation—under a very watchful eye. Failure to show Umbridge a change or growth will result in Trelawney being sacked. This is the very thing the Headmaster and I wish to avoid, in your case.” Snape reaches in his bag and pulls out the book and several sheets of parchment. At the sight of her lesson plans, Darcy lets out a groan. “I’ve changed your lesson plans for the next few days. Read them over, and be prepared for your inspection first thing Monday morning.”

Snape places the lesson plans in Darcy’s hands, ignoring her indignant look.

“And, Darcy, about this date of yours tomorrow night…” He scrunches his nose, getting to his feet and leaving the bag with Darcy. Darcy blushes hard, looking down at the improved lesson plans, Snape’s messy scribble covering most of what Darcy had written. _Is it the Order’s main goal to give out as much information as possible on Harry and me? Is it their main goal to interfere with my life as much as they can?_ “You will be back at the castle no later than ten o’clock.”

“ _What_?” Darcy shrieks, outraged. She jumps to her feet. “Ten o’clock? Why?”

Snape shrugs, too innocently. “Unless you’d rather someone accompany you,” he suggests in a falsely kind voice, making Darcy surge with embarrassment.

“Like I won’t already be watched,” Darcy mumbles, crossing her arms over her chest. “You set Mundungus on Harry and all he did was go to Hogsmeade.”

“We had very good reason to set someone on your brother,” Snape replies with a sneer. “We have a little more faith, as a whole, in you as a twenty-year-old witch going on a date. Unless you are planning on recruiting more thirteen-year-olds? In which case, I’d prefer you tell me now.”

“You can’t set a curfew for me,” Darcy protests, feeling more like a child than she’s felt in a long time. _Who does he think he is_? “I’m not a child, and I’m not a student.”

“You _are_ a child, however much you may think otherwise,” Snape reminds me, infuriating her. He takes a step closer. “Until the Headmaster deems it safe to allow you on your own, and as long as you are under my care, you will listen to what I have to say, and abide by any rules set in place for your own safety.”

“But—” Darcy searches wildly for something to say, just to voice her opinion on how incredibly stupid this is. “That’s _so_ not fair!”

“Life isn’t fair,” Snape shrugs again, as if this is completely out of his control. “You will be very disappointed if you think any differently. Now, do I have your word that you will be back at the castle by ten o’clock, or must I assign you a guard?”

Darcy clenches her teeth, growling. “What if I bring him up to the—”

“No, absolutely not.”

“Fine,” Darcy spits. “Ten o’clock. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“No,” Snape replies, and Darcy lifts her eyebrows nearly to her hairline. “Go pack your things. I’m to escort you back to the castle—” As Darcy groans again, Snape continues loudly over her, “— _at the Headmaster’s request_.”

When Darcy finally packs all of her things, has smoked her last cigarette (in a record-breaking four minutes), and heads down the stairs, the Order meeting is just coming to a close. A few people have gone, it seems—Professor McGonagall is nowhere to be found, Tonks and Kingsley are absent from the kitchen, and the Weasleys have likely gone home already. Snape is standing by the front door, checking his watch as Darcy drags her bag lazily down the remaining stairs.

“Everything all right?” Lupin asks before she makes it to the landing, hurrying up to her with his eyebrows knitted together. “Listen, I didn’t tell them—”

“I know you didn’t.” Darcy smiles weakly. “Umbridge is inspecting two of our classes tomorrow.”

Lupin sighs heavily. “Good luck,” he says soothingly, but Darcy can still see the worry etched in his lined face. “Everything will be fine. You’ll do great.”

“Bye, Darcy,” Emily smiles, exchanging a knowing look with Gemma, who’s wriggling her eyebrows. “I’ll stop by next weekend and you can tell us all about your date.”

“Shut up,” Darcy retorts, blushing, but she smiles and hugs Emily and Gemma all the same. “See you.”

Sirius wraps a tight arm around her before she leaves, trapping her against him. He gives Snape a look of pure loathing. “If I hear that you’ve been mistreating my goddaughter—”

“ _Sirius_ …” Darcy frowns, wanting to hide her face as he pulls her tighter to him. “C’mon…”

“I mean it, Snape,” Sirius snarls.

“Call off your dog, Darcy,” Snape sneers. “And let’s go.”

Sirius kisses Darcy on the cheek, an insincere kiss that she knows is likely something to rub in Snape’s face. Darcy squirms, detaching herself from Sirius to join Snape. Past Sirius, in the threshold and leaning against the door frame, is Lupin, watching with his hands deep in his pockets.

“Ready?” Snape asks, ignoring the onlookers and placing a hand on her shoulder.

Darcy nods, following him out of Grimmauld Place. “Why do you have to be so mean?” she hisses at him, digging her fingernails into his right forearm.

“I didn’t hear you speaking up.” And in a whirl of colors and a squeezing sensation, the two of them are gone.

* * *

_I will not let her ruin me. If I am to be sacked from Hogwarts, it will not be because I am incompetent._

Darcy plasters a smile to her face, smooths out her robes, and tickles underneath Max’s beak. He continues to snooze on her bed as she leaves the room, making her way down to breakfast. Professor Umbridge looks particularly smug as her pouchy eyes follow Darcy all the way to the staff table. She tries to communicate silently with Harry, somehow attempting to let him know Umbridge is inspecting not only her first year class, but his, as well.

She doesn’t quite think he gets the message, but something in Harry’s eyes makes Darcy think there’s something he’s trying to silently communicate to her, as well.

Snape brings Darcy to the classroom before breakfast ends, and once inside, pulls another piece of parchment from his pocket. “What’s this?” she asks warily, taking the parchment from him. “‘Educational Decree Number Twenty Four’... _what_? ‘All student Organizations, Societies, Teams, Groups, and Clubs are henceforth’—what? Disbanded? Why?” Darcy clenches and unclenches her jaw, thinking hard, staring into Snape’s face. “She knows.”

“If she knew, your little friends would have been expelled already,” Snape replies, urging her to keep her voice down. “Let us hope it is only a coincidence. We’ll know by the end of our first class, anyway…”

“ _My_ first class, you mean,” Darcy smiles toothily, passing back the parchment and moving away, but—“Ouch! Ow, ow, _ow_!”

Darcy turns her head as much as she can to find her hair tangled in one of the large, silver buttons on Snape’s shirt. Snape tries to pull away from her, tugging her hair and her head back. He makes a disgusted, disgruntled noise.

“Get it off!” she hisses, and Snape hesitates before raising his hands to where her hair has gotten tangled. “Hurry up! Ouch—! Don’t just rip it off—!”

“ _Hem, hem_.”

In their struggle, neither Darcy nor Snape had heard the door to the classroom open. Umbridge stands squat in the doorway, smiling politely at them both before writing furiously on a clipboard.   
  
Out of the corner of her mouth, she whispers, “Just rip it.”

“What?”

“Just _rip_ it.” Darcy closes her eyes, bracing herself, as Snape wraps the end of her red hair around his finger and pulls hard. She hears her hair rip and lets out a “ _Ah_ ,” and then it’s over.

“Well,” Umbridge sighs, giving them both her oiliest smile, taking in the jars on the shelves all around them and scrunching her nose. “If you two are quite finished…”

Thankfully, it isn’t long before the other students begin to trickle in. Professor Umbridge grips her quill a little too tight, her eyes nearly bulging from her skull. Professor Snape takes his seat at his desk, shuffling through the threshold and taking their own seats, not failing to notice Umbridge in the back corner of the classroom.

“Good morning,” Darcy begins, and the class repeats it tiredly back to her. She can hear the scribbling of Umbridge’s quill behind her. “We won’t be using our cauldrons today. Instead, we’re going to be taking a closer look at some common ingredients that we’ll be using more frequently as we brew more potions.”

Darcy has the first years crowd around one of the desk as she shows them some of the more common ingredients that they’ll be seeing much of in their following year and beyond. She teaches them how to skin, chop, and dice, teaches them the abilities of the ingredients, where they can be found, how to grow some and how to care for others. Relief floods her when she makes the class laugh every so often, and while Umbridge’s presence seems to make them cautious, the students ease up when Darcy smiles freely, joking with them. Umbridge watches over Darcy’s shoulder, the scratching of her quill on parchment echoing tenfold in Darcy’s head. But Umbridge doesn’t interrupt, and at least has the decency to wait to talk until Darcy’s dismissed the class and begins to clean up with shaky hands. She can’t help noticing Snape’s watchful eye, his face drained of color.

“A very interesting lesson,” Umbridge says sweetly, and Darcy smiles very, very weakly, sure she isn’t being sincere. “Perhaps a little too difficult for first years, however? Shouldn’t they be learning something a bit simpler?”

Looking quickly at Snape, Darcy answers, “It’s on the syllabus for first years, Professor.” She clears her throat, tucking some of her hair behind her ears. “When will I get my results?”

Umbridge looks up from her clipboard quickly, as if Darcy has just overstepped by asking a simple question. “A week,” she answers breathily, tutting. “I am curious, Professor Snape—why is it that you need Miss Potter teaching first years? Surely the task is not too much for you?”

Snape doesn’t falter, giving Darcy a warning look. “Of course the work is not over taxing, but the Headmaster has set expectations,” he explains smoothly, and Darcy nods, as if this is common knowledge. “He has no wish to pay her to sit around and do nothing. Unless you would rather I have her teach seventh years, she will continue as she has been doing.”

“Hm,” Umbridge says distractedly, writing quickly. “As High Inquisitor, you can see why it would be concerning. An unnecessary expense, perhaps, to have Darcy here throughout the year if she’s not doing anything of importance. Of course, Hogwarts teachers have never taken on assistants, have they?”

“No,” Snape replies, his tone icy.

Umbridge grins wide, her thin lips stretching her face. “Why attempt to fix a system that isn’t broken?” Umbridge lifts the parchment she’d been writing on, running a stubby finger down a second piece of parchment clipped to the clipboard. “Miss Potter, it seems you’ve done well in school—” Affronted, Darcy tries to peer down at what Umbridge is looking at, but doesn’t get the chance. “Have you had time to think on what I told you the last time we talked?”

Darcy’s mouth goes very dry, and her throat burns as the bile begins to rise. She glances at Snape again, silently begging for help.

“You must be very proud of yourself,” Umbridge continues with a simper. “Donating all of that money to a fund for werewolves. Do you know what I think?”

She shakes her head, holding her hands behind her back.

“I think you know where the werewolf is, and I think you know where the escaped convict, Sirius Black, is. And I think your donation speaks volumes,” Umbridge says again. Darcy looks her in the eyes, not wanting to give anything away by faltering. “Where do your loyalties lie, Miss Potter? With Dumbledore?”

Darcy opens her mouth to answer, thinking carefully. “I am loyal to Hogwarts. I am loyal to Professor Snape, who has allowed me here.”

Umbridge considers Darcy, tilting her head slightly and writing again on her clipboard. Without looking up at her, she asks, “Where do you go during weekends, Miss Potter?”

Darcy laughs softly, trying to sound carefree. “I’m sorry, Professor—what does this have to do with my teaching ability?”

Looking at Snape, almost as if she’d forgotten he is still sitting at his desk watching them closely, Umbridge exhales loudly, giggling. “But of course—nothing. The Ministry just wishes to have enough background on the teachers at Hogwarts in order to make informed decisions about whether or not they are capable and deserving of a place among this… _prestigious_ school. If, however, one of Hogwarts’ teachers were hiding information in regards to the whereabouts of Sirius Black, and if one of Hogwarts’ teachers were found to be working closely with Dumbledore, well...it is safe to say that teacher would no longer be welcomed here, and a full investigation would be launched in order to coerce the truth out of said teacher, willingly or not.”

Darcy doesn’t know what to say for a moment. She thinks it rather bold of Umbridge to offer such a threat in front of Snape, as well, this time. Her words frighten Darcy, but she tries hard not to betray her emotions—she will not let Umbridge see her fear.

“And anyone—student or teacher—that is found to be resisting the Ministry in support of Dumbledore will not be here for very long.” Umbridge breathes in deeply, regaining her girlish charm within seconds. “Do you have anything you wish to tell me, Miss Potter?”

“No, Professor,” Darcy says.

“Come now, Darcy.” Umbridge takes another step closer, as if trying to block Snape out of their conversation completely. Her smile is sickeningly sweet, and Darcy’s stomach knots and twists violently. “Don’t you remember what happens to liars? Surely the message was quite plain?”

But Darcy—despite her trembling—places her hands upon the desk, hoping that Umbridge will accept her bluff and leave the classroom. Extending her fingers to reveal her healed knuckles and waiting for a blow to come, Darcy whispers, “I am not a liar.”

Umbridge gives one of her unbearable giggles. “Professor Snape, I trust that you will punish Miss Potter appropriately? Or shall I take initiative? If there is one thing I will not have in my school, it is nasty little liars.”

Ten minutes later, with Umbridge out of the classroom for the short break between classes and Darcy’s knuckles swollen and bruised again and her cheeks wet with tears, Snape gives her a bowl of Murtlap essence to ease the pain and sits beside her at the front desk. “Are you all right?” Snape asks, too gently, his face very white.

Darcy nods slowly, avoiding his eyes, feeling very ashamed for some reason. It had been one thing to have been nearly tortured in Umbridge’s office with no one around to watch, and quite another to be nearly tortured in the confines of the one classroom Darcy feels safest, in front of Professor Snape.

The overwhelming urge to have someone love her hits her over the head abruptly. The idea that Darcy may no longer be safe inside Hogwarts—with Snape, who had promised her she’d be safe—is an intrusive thought, a terrible thought. She wishes Lupin were here, that Gemma were here, or Sirius, or someone that would scoop her into their arms and let her cry for a little while while their fingers trace patterns on her exposed skin. Darcy thinks of her date with Oliver tonight, wondering what he’d say if he knew what was happening. Is this something she could tell him? She isn’t really sure how much she should tell Oliver at all; something in her tells her that Oliver could never understand—he thinks he does, but he never has understood.

Darcy watches Snape’s face as he inspects her hands, wiping the potion away and looking closely at the bruises. _He is so gentle with me_ , she thinks, almost startled. _How is it possible for someone so cruel and hateful and spiteful to be so gentle_? “Professor Snape?”

Without looking up, he hums.

“Will you tell me what you said to my mother today?”

There’s a heavy silence, and Darcy sees the anger in his cold eyes, but his voice is still level when he answers. “No, and do not ask me again.”

“Sorry,” Darcy says quickly, blushing and pulling her hands away from him.

Snape clenches his jaw and swallows. “Here,” he says, getting to his feet. “Let’s get rid of all this before she comes back.”


	26. Chapter 26

After a long Potions class in which Darcy had to endure Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson taunting her and telling lies about her to Professor Umbridge’s face (“She used to bring her werewolf here to school,” Pansy had told Umbridge in a loud voice, “only last year. I used to see him sneaking up to her room, and I heard when she was a student, she spent _a lot_ of time with him.”), Neville spilling Strengthening Solution (or what was _supposed_ to be a Strengthening Solution) over the front of Darcy’s robes and making them catch fire within seconds, and Snape dousing her with water while the class watches on in horror, Darcy doesn’t think the day can get much worse. Harry, Hermione, and Ron linger once class ends, waiting for Umbridge to leave. As soon as she does, the three of them approach Darcy.

“Meet me after classes. I don’t have long tonight,” she mutters, and Harry nods hesitantly, leaving the classroom with Ron and Hermione trailing after him.

All throughout the last class of the day, Darcy daydreams about the end of lessons, the walk down to Hogsmeade where she’ll be meeting Oliver Wood for dinner. She’s starting to get anxious about it, afraid to see him—it had been one thing to meet Oliver at a gala where the music had been loud, the food and drink delicious, spirits running high. It’s another to meet him in the Three Broomsticks for a date. What are they even supposed to talk about? Like Darcy’s actually going to tell him how her summer went, like she’s actually going to be truthful with him about anything. She wonders if someone is going to be watching her, like Mundungus had done to Harry. Will she need to continually check over her shoulder? Will they be forced to take refuge in the room Oliver had booked to escape watchful eyes? And what will happen when she confesses she still has a curfew, despite not even being a student anymore? Surely he’ll laugh at her, think she’s insane, think it’s all overwhelming and decide she isn’t worth the trouble. After all, if Lupin doesn’t want her—Lupin, who understood _everything_ sometimes without having to be told—why would Oliver?

Privately, she wishes she could just go back to Grimmauld Place. She wants to curl up before a fire with the people she loves most around her. She wants to hear Lupin’s soothing words of reassurance as he places kisses up and down her throat; she wants Sirius to hold her as she cries and cries and cries, until there are no more tears left; she wants Gemma to place a cigarette between her lips, to pour her a glass of firewhisky to fill that hole in her heart. Darcy wants to go home, to slip under the warm, green, slightly musty smelling blankets on her large bed, to sleep next to a warm body.

Clearly someone had gotten the question correct in order to enter her room, because when Darcy steps out of the back bedroom, Harry, Ron, and Hermione are wandering inside, throwing their bags and books down and making themselves at home on the sofas. “Okay,” Darcy sighs, holding up two outfits and giving the three of them a very serious look. “Which one?”

“Hang on,” Ron snorts. “We didn’t come here to get you dressed. You had Umbridge back to back this morning—are you just not going to tell us how the first class went?”

“It was fine,” Darcy replies, blushing and keeping her hands hidden from sight. She’s sure Harry has seen them, for he narrows his eyes suspiciously at her. “Umbridge made her little threats, made sure I know what it means to be loyal to Dumbledore.”

“Did she say anything about the lesson?” Hermione asks nervously. “It went all right, didn’t it?”

“The lesson was fine,” Darcy says, shrugging her shoulders. “Professor Snape and I worked very hard on perfecting my lesson plans. She can’t say that I’m not a capable teacher, but I suppose we won’t know for sure until a week from now.”

“I’ve been waiting for Umbridge to inspect Snape for too long,” Ron sighs happily, kicking his feet up on the table and chuckling. “There’s nothing better than Snape being humiliated in front of the class.”

“You’re being rude, Ron,” Darcy snaps, setting the outfits down over the back of the sofa he’s seated on. She sits down next to Hermione, crossing her arms over her chest to hide her hands. “Umbridge is foul—”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Ron says, sitting up straight. “You see what she did?”

“With the groups and everything? Yeah, Snape showed me this morning,” Darcy frowns. “Does she know about your meeting in Hogsmeade?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry answers. “But you know she’s disbanding the Quidditch teams, as well? Angelina’s going to ask to reform the team tonight, but you know Umbridge—she’ll probably want to drag this out for as long as possible, for the sole reason of torturing me.”

“So it could just be a coincidence.” Darcy heaves a great sigh, jumping to her feet to get herself a glass of firewhisky—for her nerves, of course. “You know that Mundungus Fletcher saw you in the Hog’s Head on Saturday? He told the Order. McGonagall gave me a real earful yesterday about it. She’s furious. And your mum didn’t seem thrilled about the idea, Ron.”

Hermione gasps, her hands over her mouth. The three of them exchange slightly panicky looks. “But what if he’s told Umbridge?”

“Dung’s part of the Order,” Ron says, waving Hermione off impatiently. “He told them because he had to, didn’t he? He wouldn’t tell Umbridge. Wish he hadn’t told mum, though.”

“What did McGonagall say?” Hermione asks again, looking ready to cry. “Was she _so_ angry with me?”

“No, she wasn’t. She thinks it was my idea, and I didn’t bother correcting her. But I’m supposed to put a stop to it.”

“Are you going to? Put a stop to it?” Harry raises his eyebrows at his sister.

“Of course not,” Darcy replies with a small smile, checking her watch. “Now listen—I really have to get going soon, so with as few words as possible, tell me how the meeting went.”

They all speak at once, talking over each other, flushed with excitement and telling Darcy completely different things. She listens as she drinks, trying to hear everything that everyone is saying. From what she gathers, everything went very well (despite Mundungus ratting them out to the Order) and many people have signed up. Hermione asks Darcy if she has an idea where they could practice, and Darcy offers her own room to them, but Harry shuts this down quickly.

“And Sirius is going to be in the fire tonight. Same time as last time,” Harry says finally, looking as if he’s purposefully saved this particular piece of information for last. “He sent a letter with Hedwig, but—I’m sure someone intercepted her. Professor McGonagall says channels of communication are being watched.”

“It’s too late to tell him not to come,” Hermione adds quickly, looking pleadingly at Harry. “Unless you’re able to stop him?”

“I’m not going to Grimmauld Place,” Darcy tells them, and it seems this is a shock. “I have a date tonight in Hogsmeade.”

“A _date_?”

“With who?”

“But you didn’t tell us this!”

Darcy blushes, not having expecting such a reaction from any of them. Harry and Ron look at her curiously, while Hermione seems excited. She gets up on her knees, looking over the back of the sofa at Darcy. “Well,” she begins slowly, unable to look any of them in the eyes. “Gemma had invited Oliver Wood to the gala and we had a great time and—”

“You’re going on a date with _Oliver Wood_?” Harry asks incredulously. His tone is accusing—of what, she isn’t sure, but it makes Darcy frown.

“Yes,” she replies breathlessly, taking another long drink of her firewhisky. “Anyway, did Sirius say in his letter exactly where he’ll be and what time?”

“No,” Harry says, though judging by his tone, the conversation about Oliver isn’t over. “He just said, same time and same place.”

“So whoever’s watching the channels of communication—probably Umbridge—won’t know. She doesn’t even know who sent the letter.” Darcy sounds confident enough, but it’s not enough to convince even herself. “Listen, I’ll be back by ten o’clock sharp. Leave the Invisibility Cloak here and I’ll meet you outside the common room at quarter of. I want to tell him how my date went, and I don’t know that I can’t wait until Friday…”

While Harry and Ron are less than interested in her date, Hermione offers to help Darcy get ready. Hermione chooses—in Darcy’s opinion—the better outfit, brushes her hair and braids it, leaving a few strands expertly framing her face. Darcy tells her all about the gala very quickly as time continues to tick. Her nerves are jangling now, and Darcy begins to panic. However, she’s quite glad Hermione has stayed—if there is one thing Darcy desperately misses at Hogwarts, it’s a warm female presence, or Gemma in particular. Though she had come and gone from Hogwarts last year, the few days she’d spent with Madam Pomfrey had been her favorite days.

“Why did I do this?” she asks, more to herself than Hermione. “I’ve never even been on a first date before—I mean, Oliver and I slept together dozens of times before we actually had lunch in Hogsmeade and Remus and I—well, you know why we never actually went on a real first date, and—oh my god, Hermione, what am I doing?”

“But you’ve said it, Darcy,” Hermione smiles. “You had a good time with Oliver. Is this not what you want?”

Darcy sighs loudly, crossing her arms, wondering how much to tell Hermione. It’s not like she’s able to write to Gemma right now, and Emily wouldn’t care much about how she really feels. “Well, no...I mean,” Darcy frowns. “When Remus and I came home from the gala—he’d seen me kissing Oliver—he was angry with me, just like he used to be when he’d see me with Oliver at school. I thought—I don’t know…I guess I thought he’d want me back, but he didn’t.”

“Then don’t go on a date with Oliver,” Hermione says slowly, as if she’s not positive that’s the right answer.

“I can’t sit around pining after Remus,” Darcy continues, suddenly feeling a wave of sadness wash over her. “He drives me _crazy_ , and I rarely even see him. I’m _mad_ for him—he invades my dreams at night and I miss him all the time and I ache for him, and I—I can’t live like this—loving him _so_ much and not being able to have him—” It all comes rushing out of her. Things she hadn’t been able to say—things she’s had no one to say them to. Darcy had been too ashamed to reveal such things to Gemma, not wanting to have those thoughts laughed off. And besides Gemma, what other girlfriends did she have? With Emily encouraging Tonks to go after Lupin, and Carla half a world away, who else could she ever talk to about this? “Why wasn’t I enough for him? All I ever wanted to do was love him—to make him feel loved because I appreciated him so much, and how could I have ever married him now? How could I have ever married him knowing that, one day, he could leave and never come back? What if he’d been killed? What if he decided he didn’t love me? Everyone leaves in the end—always—Mr. Bagman, Sirius, my parents—”

Darcy buries her face in her hands, crying softly.

“Please, Hermione…” she rasps, her voice muffled by her palms. “ _Please_ —just go.”

Hermione slips out of the bedroom without another word.

Thirty minutes later, her eyes still red and slightly bloodshot, Darcy is overwhelmed with the warmth inside the Three Broomsticks. There’s a roaring fire in the large hearth, and there are still a few empty tables among the raucous groups of people drinking and eating. Oliver Wood is sitting at the bar, looking handsome in a maroon sweater. Darcy looks around for a sign of anyone from the Order watching her, and then approaches Oliver.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” she smiles. Oliver stands to kiss her cheek. “It was a really long day, and I—” Darcy looks around again. “You’ve booked a room?”

“Er—yes,” Oliver chuckles nervously. “Did you not want to have dinner?”

“No, no! I’d love dinner!” Darcy blushes furiously, gripping Oliver’s hand and squeezing tight. “Could we eat in your room? I’ll explain everything then.”

Oliver casts her a curious look, but agrees without further question. So fifteen minutes later, settled in front of the fire with their dinner, Darcy is able to relax a little. She almost immediately regrets suggesting dinner in his room, however, missing the nights spent with Lupin just like this. Darcy pushes the thought aside.

“Are you going to explain now? Are you embarrassed to be seen with me in public?” Oliver’s eyes are twinkling. Darcy swallows, shrugging her shoulders and his smile fades slightly.

Shifting uncomfortably, Darcy clears her throat. “Professor Dumbledore wants an eye kept on me whenever I leave the castle, and I was worried someone was watching me downstairs. I just wanted to be alone.” Seeking a distraction, Darcy says, “Tell me about Quidditch.”

Oliver’s eyes get the usual manic glint in them and he spirals off into a long speech about tactics he’s picked up while playing for Puddlemere, gladly detailing the few times he’d been able to ride a Firebolt. It seems he’d been holding back the night of the gala, but as Oliver chatters on and on, Darcy begins to recognize the boy she knows from school. He’s passionate still, she thinks—maybe outrageous and over excited most of the time, but he’s always been that way, and she admires it all the same. He talks of Harry, reliving the match where they’d won the Quidditch Cup—how it would feel to win the World Cup. While she eats and listens, Darcy absently watches his lips move, only hearing half of what he’s saying, wondering when he’s going to kiss her again.

Darcy gets her wish twenty minutes later. She’s privately quite glad Oliver hasn’t asked about her day, because she didn’t really want to tell him all about Umbridge and how terrible of a person she is. That would take a lot of explaining, and for some reason, Darcy doesn’t see herself telling Oliver she’d been whacked over the hands. The bruises are still there, but Oliver doesn’t say anything about them if he’s even noticed.

They sit in silence for a few minutes after pushing their finished dinners away, listening to the fire crackle and spit. “Darcy?” Oliver asks, and he turns to face him.

“Yes?”

“I had a good time with you Saturday night.”

Darcy smiles. “Me too.”

He hesitates, looking awkward, his hands in his lap. Oliver turns back to the fire, his cheeks pink, but Darcy moves closer, kissing his cheek. At the feel of her lips, Oliver grins, and captures Darcy’s lips in a bruising kiss.

She can’t remember kissing him for so long before. Darcy’s hungry for it—hungry for kisses and affection, hungry for touch and love. Oliver’s lips travel from her lips to her jaw, where he nips at her skin and solicits soft moans and hollow groans that come from deep within her chest. Darcy’s racing heart can barely keep up, and she allows herself to be swept into his arms, making her laugh, and with ease, Oliver moves her into his lap.

They undress slowly, the moment Darcy had been most anticipating coming nearer. She knew this would happen, knew that going on a date with Oliver meant sleeping with him, too. The last time someone who wasn’t Lupin tried anything with her, she hadn’t been able to go through with it, but Darcy means to go through with it now. It’s too hard to be alone—it’s too hard to be lonely. Oliver lifts her sweater over her head and Darcy knows he’s seen her shoulder many times before, but this time it’s different—he kisses them.

Darcy almost tells him off, almost berates him for putting his lips in such a place, almost scolds him for kissing them the way Lupin used to. But Oliver lifts his head after he finishes with them and asks, “Did he do this to you?”

Her heart in her throat, Darcy nods slowly. “It was an accident. He didn’t mean to.” To put an end to the conversation, she helps Oliver out of his own sweater, feeling faint at the sight of him shirtless. His chest, taut and hairless, his muscles working under his skin as he runs his hands up and down her body.

Oliver walks his fingers up her sides, tickling her and making her writhe in his lap, laughing hard. “Stop it,” Darcy gasps through laughter, her protests coming to a feeble end when he kisses her mouth again. It takes her breath away, and when Oliver lifts his head, she’s left panting. “I think this may be a record, Wood. The longest we’ve ever kept our clothes on while alone together.”

“Do you remember when I dislocated my shoulder that one time?” Oliver laughs, kissing the crook of Darcy’s neck. “You wouldn’t set it for me.”

“I was scared!” she confesses, his lips kissing along the edge of her bra. “I didn’t want to feel it pop!”

They laugh together for a little bit longer, sighing happily. Darcy kisses him again; Oliver shudders as her fingers ghost above the waistline of his trousers. Finally, he coaxes her out of his lap, picking her up and smiling when her long legs wrap around him.

Dropped onto her back on the bed, Darcy laughs. “Hard to believe we aren’t kids anymore, isn’t it?” she teases. “Fucking in a broom closet? Or a toilet?”

“I much prefer it this way,” Oliver jokes, crawling over top of her. “It’s just occurred to me I’ve never slept next to you.”

“Are you inviting me to stay the night?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow and smirking.

“Did you want to?”

She doesn’t, really. Of course she would like nothing more than to curl up in someone’s arms for the night— _no, I like Oliver. I want to curl up in his arms, not just anyone’s_. But then again, she’s afraid she might have a nightmare, waking him with her screams of panic and crying fit afterwards. It was different with Lupin beside her—he’d always been able to ease her fears and soothe her, long before he’d been hers. And even with Gemma beside her, Gemma is always able to calm Darcy quickly.

“We’ve only just met again,” Darcy frowns. “Besides, Professor Snape will kill me if I’m not back by ten.”

“Ten o’clock? Professor Snape sets your bedtime, does he?” Oliver kisses down her throat, placing his rough cheek to her chest. “What does it matter to him what time you go back?”

“It’s dangerous for me, Oliver,” Darcy murmurs, running a hand through his hair. “We should be lucky there isn’t someone standing sentinel outside the door.”

Oliver hums, clearly not interested. It frustrates her to a certain degree, but maybe it’s best if she just doesn’t talk about it. And Darcy doesn’t really think she has a right to be angry with him—of course he doesn’t understand, because she hadn’t bothered to explain herself or the situation. Instead, she lets Oliver kiss her for a long time, clawing at the clasp of her bra. He’s teeth and nails; Darcy, a glutton for the pain and punishment. Oliver bites down hard on her skin, leaving teeth marks and little red and purple bruises all over. Darcy gasps with each bite, pleasure shooting down her spine, relishing the feel of someone appreciating her body, her touch.

When Oliver finally makes to tear her pants off, they’re back to giggles and smiles, blushing and teasing. Darcy can’t remember the last time she’d laughed so much in bed with Lupin. They take a long time to finish undressing, touching each other curiously and almost innocently over their clothes from the waist down. The sun goes down outside the window before Oliver even has her jeans off, and he lowers them painfully slowly, making Darcy ache and feeling slightly desperate.

Darcy props herself on her elbows, her underwear the only piece of clothing still being worn, and she begins to unbutton his pants when there’s a brisk knock at the door. Oliver groans, but Darcy’s heart begins to race. She pulls the blankets up to cover herself and Oliver gets up to answer the door.

As soon as he does—shirtless, his pants unbuttoned, looking distinctly disheveled—he adjusts the front of his trousers, clearing his throat and going wide-eyed. “Oh—what are you doing here? Er—sir?”

At the sound of that one word and at the look of complete fear in his eyes, Darcy scowls, wrapping a sheet around herself and marching over to the door. “Go away, Professor Snape, I still have an hour— _oh_.”

”You’d come to the door like that if Severus was standing here?”

It’s not Professor Snape standing there. Darcy flushes at the sight of Lupin, his shoulders slumped and looking angry, but not as angry as Darcy might have expected. There are dark shadows under his eyes, and a strong smell of brandy overwhelms her. Oliver puts a hand on her back as she pulls the sheet tighter around her. “Remus,” she breathes. “What are you doing here? Is everything all right? Is everyone okay?”

“Can we talk for a moment? Alone?” Lupin’s eyes flick quickly to Oliver.

Darcy turns to face him, giving Oliver the most apologetic look she can muster, and he seems to understand. She’s glad that Oliver can’t hear the furiously pounding of her heart in her chest, nor feel the sweat on her palms. Oliver kisses her temple before retreating inside again, and Darcy waits until she hears the loud groaning of the mattress before speaking again.

“Remus, I’m on a date,” she whispers, trying to force herself to sound upset at his interruption. But really, his appearance here, in Hogsmeade, makes her heart leap with joy. “Is this so important that it can’t wait until the weekend?”

“Gemma told me you would be here tonight,” Lupin explains softly, and Darcy makes a mental note to kill her best friend. Surely Gemma had known Lupin was planning on coming when he’d asked where Darcy was—or had Gemma given the information to him willingly, and this was all part of her plan?

Darcy purses her lips, pulling the sheet still tighter around her, feeling awkward. “What are you doing here, Remus?”

Lupin’s hand jumps to the back of his neck. He avoids Darcy’s eyes for a moment, and there’s a look on his face that Darcy has never seen on his face before, a look that makes him look twenty years younger, just a boy again. It’s hurt, disappointment, how Darcy had felt for weeks after Lupin left her. “I don’t know,” he answers with a shrug.

Darcy inhales deeply, frowning. “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispers. “If Umbridge finds out you’ve come to Hogsmeade—”

“Please don’t sleep with him.” Lupin says it so quietly, Darcy isn’t sure she’s actually heard him say it at all. But his cheeks turn slightly pink in the dim candlelight, and he looks away from her again, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here. But his confession makes Darcy’s heart stop, and she almost vomits on the spot the way her stomach is churning and knotting.

She looks at him for a moment, unable to speak. “You’ve been drinking,” she breathes, moving closer to him. Lupin stretches out his neck, as if to kiss her, the smell of alcohol stronger the closer she gets. Darcy avoids his lips quickly, wishing she hadn’t.

Lupin looks absolutely defeated then, sighing heavily and digging his hands deep in his pockets.

“Tell me you’re mine,” Darcy whispers, hoping desperately he’ll indulge her. “Tell me you’re mine, and I am yours, and we can go home together. Tell me, and I’ll make you feel _good_ , Remus. I’ll make you feel _loved_. I’ll keep your bed warm at night, and I’ll kiss you whenever I please. I’ll take care of you.” She takes another step forward, wishing she had clothes on, blushing hard. Darcy touches his chest, able to feel his furiously beating heart, but no words spill from him—he doesn’t answer her request, doesn’t tell her what she wants to hear, only stands there looking pathetic and drunk. She lowers her hand and steps away. “You said it was over, and you can’t jerk me around like this. You can’t just show up here while I’m with someone else. Why did you come here?”

Lupin gives her a very small, weak smile, shaking his head and shrugging. “I don’t know. To see you.”

Darcy clings to the sheet, looking down at her feet. “You should go, before anyone finds out you’re here.”

But Darcy doesn’t heed Lupin’s request. When she shuts the door behind her, it’s all she can do not to cry as she listens to Lupin’s heavy footsteps move away and down the stairs. _He came here for me, she thinks. He came here because he loves me, because he doesn’t want me to be with anyone else_. But he also hadn’t been able to commit—hadn’t been able to agree to her terms, and for that, Darcy lets Oliver fuck her clumsily, several times.

The first time he finishes early, spilling onto her stomach, apologizing over and over again and kissing around the base of her throat. The second time, Darcy has to close her eyes, feeling too guilty to even look at Oliver above her, inside of her. The third time, she’s more than grateful that Oliver flips her on her stomach, and as he moves in and out of her, with her face buried in the pillow, Lupin’s words reverberate in her head: _Please don’t sleep with him._

When she finally makes her way back to the castle (exactly three minutes late), Snape is standing at the front doors waiting. “You’re late,” he snaps. “I told you ten o’clock.”

Darcy just looks at him, sad and lonely and wanting to curl up in bed. “Sorry, Professor. It won’t happen again.”

She means to make her way up the marble staircase, but Snape catches her. His hand comes down hard upon her scarred shoulder. Darcy looks at him, waiting for some angry retort, prepared for it. “Are you all right?”

She blinks in surprise, shrugging his hand off her shoulder. “I’m fine.”

* * *

“Darcy already told me that mum—where have _you_ been?”

Though underneath the Invisibility Cloak, Ron doesn’t fail to notice the portrait hole open and close seemingly of its own accord. She pokes her head out, gasping for breath. The empty Gryffindor common room is just how she remembers it to be, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione are crouched in front of the fire, where Darcy catches sight of Sirius’s head. Darcy gets to her knees beside them, glancing around nervously.

“You’ve been drinking,” Hermione notes, scrunching her nose. “Is that why you’re late?”

Darcy doesn’t answer.

“Like I was saying, Ron,” Sirius continues, giving Darcy a wary look, but sounding relatively cheerful all the while. “Your mum says on no account whatsoever are you to take part in an illegal, secret Defense Against the Dark Arts.” His eyes flick between Harry and Hermione. “And she advises you two not to proceed with the group. Darcy, you didn’t shut it down, did you?”

“No,” Darcy says, slightly too harshly. She softens. “It wasn’t my idea anyway. It was Hermione’s.”

“Oh.” Sirius seems surprised, but gives Hermione a warm smile when she blushes. “Well, Ron, tell your mum I passed the message along. I don’t think she quite trusts me to do it. Anyway, it’s like I told Darcy—I think it’s a brilliant idea. How was your date, Darcy?”

“Fine,” she says, and wishing she could be alone with him. Admitting Lupin had come to interrupt isn’t something she feels comfortable sharing in front of her brother and his friends. “It went fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Just fine.”

Sirius gives her a knowing look. “We can talk more about it when you—” But he stops abruptly and tenses, and just like that, his head is gone.

Darcy inches slightly closer, only her head still visible. She peers into the flames intently and she and Hermione gasp loudly. Instead of Sirius’s face reappearing in the fire, Darcy sees a hand—not Sirius’s hand, surely not his, for this hand is not the bony and skeletal looking one she’s familiar with. The fingers are too fat, too short, too covered with rings, groping as if trying to grab onto something…

“I have to go,” Darcy breathes, hardly able to catch her breath. She throws the Invisibility Cloak at Harry, and the four of them all split. Harry, Ron, and Hermione run towards the dormitories and Darcy tears out of the common room, sprinting down the stairs three at a time, jumping over the trick steps, throwing herself at the portrait guarding her room. “Let me in, let me in—”

The woman smiles kindly. “Who was your first kiss, Darcy Potter?”

“Oliver Wood—Oliver—please, _please_ let me in—”

The portrait swings open and closes behind her with a snap. Without even bothering to undress, Darcy dives into her bed, covering herself with the blankets and trembling from head to foot, wondering if she’ll even see Sirius come the weekend. 


	27. Chapter 27

“Where were you last night?”

“I was in Hogsmeade with Oliver, you know that. Is this right? I followed the instructions exactly, but it’s not coming out right.”

Snape peers down into her cauldron, giving her lilac colored potion a slow stir and considering it. “Add another rat tail.”

“I’ve already put a rat tail in—”

“Add another one.” He watches Darcy drop another rat tail in, making the potion bubble and froth. Assuring her that’s what it should be doing, Snape stirs the potion four times counterclockwise and it settles, turning a rich purple color and staying quite still. “Your book is outdated. I have a newer copy that I’ll bring for you tomorrow. And I meant, where were you last night after your...date?”

“I was in my room,” Darcy says quickly, looking him in the eyes. Snape doesn’t look away from her, his hand in his pocket, presumably fumbling with his wand. He grabs her arm to keep her still, frowning, and even as she looks into his face, Darcy has a sudden image of Sirius floating at the forefront of her mind’s eye—Sirius’s handsome face in the fire in Gryffindor common room, his terrified face when Umbridge’s hand had appeared. Darcy jerks her arm out of Snape’s grasp and stumbles backwards, out of breath. “What are you doing?”

Snape doesn’t answer right away, and he seems incredibly unhappy. There’s a slight scowl on his face, and Darcy averts her eyes from his cold, black ones. Before he gives answer, Snape grabs the front of her robes, pushing her up against the nearby, stone wall. Darcy gasps, her chest heaving, the tip of Snape’s noise nearly touching hers. “You _idiot_ girl,” he snarls, holding her to the wall without the slightest indication of letting her go. “Have you no respect for those of us trying to keep you safe here?”

“Professor Snape, _please_.” Her breath comes in shaky gasps, voice no more than a horse whisper. Bile sears her throat, nearly choking her. “You’re scaring me.”

He releases her immediately, taking a step backwards. “If Umbridge asks you where you went before going to bed,” Snape continues, his tone a bit softer, “you were with me, checking on your potion.”

“Don’t read my mind,” Darcy whispers, still shaking. “Don’t do that ever again.”

Snape sneers. “It’s not mind-reading—”

“Don’t do it,” she repeats dangerously, wrapping her arms around herself. It’s not what he’d seen that bothers her, it’s what he could have seen. How humiliating would it have been for Snape to see her in the middle of fucking Oliver Wood? For Snape to have seen her talking to Lupin in nothing but a sheet? “You could have just explained and I would have told you the truth.”

“I don’t need to penetrate your mind to know you are a liar,” Snape replies, his face tinged a horrible yellow color, making him appear sickly and jaundiced in the warm candlelight flooding the classroom. “If you gave me the truth when I asked for it, I wouldn’t need to do that.”

“Why would I tell you the truth if it means getting threatened against a wall?”

“Because I am trying to help you,” Snape growls. “If you want me as your ally, you need to tell me the truth.”

“If you were really my ally, you wouldn’t delve into the privacy of my mind,” Darcy retorts, straightening her robes, blushing hard, and trying to regain what’s left of her dignity, hoping beyond hope that Snape hadn’t seen anything truly humiliating. She quickly looks away from him, not feeling comfortable enough to meet his eyes. Darcy checks her watch. “I have to go.”

“Go where?”

Darcy scowls at him. “It’s none of your business.” She grabs her bag off the chair, slinging it over her shoulder and tapping her cauldron with her wand. The small, blue flames underneath that had heated it are extinguished at once. Darcy moves it from the desk to one of the shelves, the potion prepared for tomorrow’s lesson. “Goodnight, Professor Snape.”

* * *

“Are you sure this is smart? I mean—Umbridge already thinks you’re on Dumbledore’s side,” Hermione murmurs. “Darcy, I don’t want you getting sacked or put on probation.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine—would you stop worrying? I missed the original meeting, and I want to be here for the first real one,” Darcy says, waving an impatient hand, though she almost accidentally hits Ron in the face. With the four of them having grown even more since the last time they’d all been underneath the Invisibility Cloak, it’s a hard time maneuvering down the corridors. “Look, she’s in her office, anyway.”

Darcy holds up the Marauder’s Map with raised eyebrows. Hermione glances at it, but doesn’t look very convinced. “If you insist you have to be under the Invisibility Cloak, that doesn’t seem to me a good sign,” she continues. “Do you even know anything about this—Room of Requirement?”

“Well,” Darcy begins slowly, scanning the map again several times. “Looks like the Marauders’ didn’t know about it, because it’s not on here. But if we’re going where I think we’re going…I think Gemma, Emily, and I hid some bottles in there once.”

Harry’s eyes widen and he leans over Ron to look at Darcy. She craves fresh air instead of breathing in everyone else’s hot breath; it makes it hard to think, hard to remember. “You know what the Room of Requirement is?”

“I didn’t know that’s what it was called,” Darcy replies, shrugging, looking carefully on the map for any sign of Filch, who would delight in punishing Darcy, student or not. “The three of us just thought the room was well hidden and that’s why we couldn’t find it again. After all, we’d been drinking heavily that night. Filch was coming round the corner, and we all went through the nearest door, and—it was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I’ve never seen it again, not that I had sought it out. Gemma tried—she wanted her alcohol back—but she said she could never find it.”

“So, maybe we’ll finally find your old alcohol and celebrate,” Ron grins. “Could use a bit of celebration, couldn’t we?”

“For what, exactly?” Hermione asks incredulously. “We haven’t even figured out how to get into the Room of Requirement yet. If, by the end of tonight, we’ve had a successful meeting with no incidents...maybe I’ll see a reason to celebrate.”

“I’m always looking for a reason to celebrate,” Darcy adds, sharing a quick smile with Ron. He’s grown a few more inches, finally eye level with her, maybe a hair or so taller. “How was Quidditch practice yesterday? If it went well, I’ll drink to that.”

“It was wet and horrible,” Ron groans. “I couldn’t see a damn thing, and Angelina’s a real nightmare sometimes.”

“Oliver was a maniac,” Darcy teases, exchanging a knowing look with Hermione. “Be glad Angelina isn’t like that.”

“The fact that Angelina was able to even get permission to reform is a good enough reason to celebrate,” Harry replies, chuckling nervously. “I didn’t think it was going to be possible.”

“Professor Snape said she appealed to McGonagall,” Darcy says. “As if McGonagall would keep Gryffindor from Quidditch practices.”

Ron elbows Harry in the ribs as they climb another flight of stairs. Darcy stumbles over her own feet, tangled up in the hem of the Invisibility Cloak. “Tell her, mate,” he murmurs in Harry’s ear.

Darcy lifts her head immediately, folding up the Marauder’s Map and stuffing it into her pocket. She gives Harry a suspicious look. “Tell me what, exactly?” she hisses, stopping at the large stretch of wall beside the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy. “What are you hiding?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, too evasively, giving Ron an irritated look.

“Harry James Potter,” Darcy says in the firmest voice she can muster, tearing the Invisibility Cloak off the four of them. Ron and Hermione back away awkwardly as Darcy crosses her arms. “Tell me _what_?”

Recognizing defeat, Harry heaves a great sigh. “My scar hurt last night,” he says, and when Darcy gives him an incredulous look, he adds quickly, “But it does that now because he’s back. It’s not a big deal. Can we not talk about this out here?”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me?” Darcy asks, as Harry begins to pace back and forth, closing his eyes and screwing up his face in concentration. “Harry, you need to tell someone! Sirius, or Dumble...dore…”

Harry’s beaming. Where there had, seconds ago, been nothing but solid wall, there’s now a door, twice the size of Darcy, and wide enough for two of them to go through shoulder to shoulder. Excitement courses through Darcy’s veins—excitement she’s not felt in a long while. The excitement that comes with an adventure—the excitement that had flooded her each time they had found a clue bringing them nearer to solving the mysteries of the Sorcerer’s Stone and the Chamber of Secrets. But thinking of this, with her hand on the doorknob, something doesn’t feel right. The excitement had always been short-lived, dangerous towards the end. Resisting the Ministry—Umbridge—suddenly seems very reckless, suddenly seems very stupid, especially with Umbridge already being suspicious. Dumbledore would certainly be furious if he knew she was involved, if he knew she hadn’t stopped this. And Snape…

His words float to the forefront of her mind vividly. _Have you no respect for those who are trying to keep you safe here_? This is exactly the kind of thing that would not only get her sacked, but thrown in Azkaban. _I will not stand by and do nothing. I have done nothing for far too long already._

Everyone tells her the same thing: be a good girl, don’t do anything stupid, keep your mouth shut. She’s of age, the closest thing to a teacher she’s like to get, and still no one lets her in to some Order meetings, things are hidden from her. If no one else will let her fight, then she will do it this way. She’s tired of following orders, especially when they’re meant to make her seem meek—especially when the orders are to be the woman Aunt Petunia would have wanted.

“Darcy?” Hermione asks gently, taking a step forward. “Are you going to open the door?”

“Get out of your head.” Ron moves beside her, reaching out to grab the door handle, but Darcy quickly slaps his hand away. “ _Hey_! If you’re not going to open it, then I will.”

With a feeling of reckless abandon, Darcy opens the door. The inside is massive—a cavernous room filled with cushions and Dark Detectors, bookshelves all around the walls lined with old books and new ones and half-torn ones and illegible ones. The room is lit well by the torches around the walls, making Darcy feel as if she’s still in Snape’s dungeon classroom. Hermione sinks into a cushion with one of the books already opened.

It had been Hermione out of them all that had protested strongly against Darcy’s attending the first meeting. She had argued it was reckless, that Sirius was egging them on in order to feel he was doing something. But Darcy, while feeling like Hermione had been right, feels sorry for Sirius. She understands the feeling of complacency, understands too well the feeling of being held back, the feeling of being useless.

But she doesn’t have time to dwell as people come filing into the room. The Weasleys are first—Fred, George, and Ginny, looking delighted to see Darcy there (“Excellent! We were wondering if we’d see you here, Darcy.”); Neville Longbottom follows them in, blushing when Darcy smiles at him; Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, Dean Thomas, Cho Chang and a girl named Marietta Edgecombe arrive. Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws (and while there are no Slytherins, Darcy feels that, if Gemma were at Hogwarts still, she would have been the first to sign up)—all in all, twenty-five people who’ve come to learn defensive spells from Harry, and Darcy can’t help but to feel a surge of pride run through her.

Everyone mutters their appreciation for the place Harry has found to practice, examining the Dark Detectors, prodding the Sneakoscope, flipping through books, and once the shock has worn off, everyone seats themselves. They all sit on cushions, looking at Harry; Darcy sits off by herself, holding her knees to her chest.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about the sort of stuff we should start with, and—” Harry blinks in surprise when Hermione’s hand rises quickly in the air. “What, Hermione?”

“I think we ought to elect a leader,” she says boldly, lowering her hand.

Cho Chang glances at her, shaking her long, dark hair out of her face. “Harry’s leader.”

“But we should vote on it properly,” Hermione continues, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “So—everyone who thinks Harry should be leader?”

A Hufflepuff boy, Zacharias Smith, points a finger at Darcy, sitting in the corner. “What about _her_?” At once, everyone’s eyes flick to Darcy, and she blushes hard. “She’s a _teacher_. She could be our leader. I bet she could teach us all kinds of spells. Bet Professor Lupin taught you _loads_ of things—”

“Easy, Smith,” Fred retorts quickly, his twin brother peering at Zacharias over Fred’s shoulder.

“I’m not going to be the leader,” Darcy says, pushing herself to her feet. She approaches Harry, smiling encouragingly at him. “There are some days I won’t be able to be here, and—I shouldn’t. If Professor Umbridge finds out that I’m here…” Darcy pushes the thought to the back of her mind. “I think Harry should be leader.”

And after a moment’s silence, everyone else agrees.

“And we should have a name,” Hermione carries on loudly, trying to alleviate the tension.

Immediately, all of the students erupt with ideas, cackling with ridiculous ones and murmuring assent with the more serious ones. Darcy returns to her corner and listens, exchanging quick glances with Harry every so often before they settle on a name—one that even Darcy agrees with. And so Hermione writes it atop their scribbled sign up sheet:

_Dumbledore’s Army._

The rest of the time spent together is spent learning how to Disarm. Harry asks Darcy to practice with the partnerless Neville, and his nerves definitely show as he attempts to knock the wand from Darcy’s hands. It’s not that Darcy can really blame anyone for not being especially good at the Disarming Charm—after all, the lack of decent teachers in the past few years means not everyone is where they should be regarding Defense Against the Dark Arts. But Darcy encourages Neville best she can, not bothering to retaliate or defend herself. Her wand flutters feebly in her hand each time Neville shouts (lacking confidence), “ _Expelliarmus_!”

Everyone around Darcy is shouting the spell loudly, some doing well and others failing miserably. Harry wanders among them all, offering help to those who need it and giving compliments to those who are doing it well. She tries to watch them carefully in between practicing with Neville, hoping with all her might that not a single person inside the Room of Requirement will sell her out to Umbridge. She wishes Gemma were here to see them in action—wishes Lupin could be here to help, to return to the thing he was so good at— _teaching_.

But Harry does well. In fact, he looks to be enjoying himself, happier and more comfortable than Darcy has seen him since before the summer.

Only when Ron shouts Darcy’s name from beside her, happily reveling in the fact that he’s successfully Disarmed a fuming and flushed Hermione, does Neville manage to make Darcy’s wand soar upwards in the air.

“Excellent, Neville!” Harry grins, having watched the entire thing. “Darcy, show them how it’s done.”

Blushing, Darcy points her wand at Harry, and without a word, only a quick flick of her wrist, Harry’s wand flies over to her. She catches it deftly, holding it up for everyone to see. Most of the students applaud her, and she does a slight curtsey, smiling.

It’s no Order of the Phoenix, but by the end of the lesson, Darcy’s heart is a little lighter than it had been at the beginning of the week.

* * *

“Tell me again why you can’t stay?”

“Because I have somewhere to be,” Darcy replies slowly, a smile playing at her lips as Oliver kisses her. She props herself up on an elbow, sinking slightly into the mattress, snaking a hand underneath his shirt to feel his hard stomach, tracing her fingertips over his muscular chest, his skin warm to the touch. “Will you miss me?”

Oliver settles back on the pillow, his hands behind his head. He grins as Darcy’s fingers continue to trace patterns on his flesh. It’s a foreign feeling, touching skin that isn’t completely marred by violent, raised, rough scars—skin that is smooth and untouched. “You keep too many secrets,” he says, not unkindly. “Let’s spend the weekend together, and you can tell me all your deep, dark secrets.”

Darcy shifts uncomfortably, removing her hand from underneath his shirt. “It’s a very tempting offer, but…” She sighs, sitting up and running a hand through her hair. Darcy thinks of Sirius at Grimmauld Place, alone in the childhood home that he hates so much, waiting for his goddaughter to come home for the weekend. Darcy thinks of Sirius at Grimmauld Place, waiting up for his goddaughter who will not be coming because she chose to spend the weekend with a boy instead. “I can’t. I have somewhere to be.”

“Hopefully not leaving me for anyone else?”

She laughs softly. “Not like that.” Darcy looks down into his handsome face, feeling sorry, sighing. _How am I ever supposed to be with someone if I can’t even tell them the truth? No one knows the truth and understands my situation more than Remus, and the only time he wants me is when I’m with someone else._ “Oliver, listen—”

“No, _you_ listen,” he says playfully, making Darcy frown. “If you’re about to give me another speech about how complicated and dangerous your life is, then save it.”

Darcy shakes her head slowly, wishing she could shake sense into him. And she finds herself repeating the words she’d said to Gavin so often: “Oliver, there are things you don’t know—”

“Like what?” Oliver asks, seemingly exasperated, but Darcy’s glad he’s still smiling. He pushes himself into a sitting position. “You can trust me.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “I don’t know who to trust anymore,” she whispers. “But those things—those things are the reason we have to keep meeting in Hogsmeade. They’re the reason we have to hide in a room, so people aren’t watching us.”

Oliver only looks at her for a long time, as if trying to will all of Darcy’s secrets out of her. She’s sure Oliver would keep her secrets, but the price of telling him—if someone were to find out she’d told him about Sirius and the Order, what would they say? They’d likely never let her leave the castle again, likely never trust her on her own again. As much as she wants someone in her life to love her, to kiss her, to hold her— _maybe it’s too much to ask right now._

“Voldemort is after my little brother,” she says again, and something about the way Oliver flinches at the name doesn’t settle well with her. “Do you think he’ll stop there? Do you think that, if Voldemort does get to Harry, he will let me live?”

He takes her hand, twining their fingers together, and Darcy fights back the urge to cry. “Darcy,” he smiles weakly. “Tell me.”

Darcy opens her mouth to speak, to tell Oliver that she will never let Voldemort have her brother, that she will do whatever it takes to protect him, and it will be dangerous, but there’s a sharp knock on the door, and she closes her eyes and mouth, sighing deeply. “Time to go, Darcy,” comes Snape’s voice from the other side. “I haven’t got all night.”

“I’m sorry,” Darcy whispers, shrugging and releasing his hand.

“You know, I’m not quite sure how to feel about Professor Snape coming to fetch you,” Oliver laughs. “Does he ever leave your side, truly?”

This makes Darcy chuckle. “Don’t mind him,” she answers. “He’s just...overprotective of me at times.”

“Why do you even listen to him? He’s not your father.”

She doesn’t know why the words make her so angry. “I know that,” she spits at Oliver.

“I can hear you, you know,” Snape hisses from the other side of the door.

Darcy gives Oliver an apologetic look. “I should go. I’m sorry.” She kisses his cheek, grabs her bag and slings it over her shoulder, grabs her coat, scarf, and gloves, and opens the door. Professor Snape is standing just outside, tapping his foot impatiently and shoving his watch into Darcy’s face. “Okay,” she snaps. “I get it. I’m late.”

They leave the Three Broomsticks together, out into the cold October wind. The sky is dark by now, and has been for some time, and Darcy pulls her scarf up over her face. It’s an odd sight to see Snape’s usually pallid face flushed with cold, making him look more alive than usual. They only speak when Snape begins to lead her back up the path towards the castle.

“What are you doing?” Darcy asks quickly, stopping and grabbing at his sleeve. “You’re supposed to take me home, not back to the castle.”

“Let the people of Hogsmeade see us walking back towards the castle,” Snape replies coolly, as if this should have been completely obvious. “In case someone decides to come sneaking around and asking too many questions.”

“Oh.” Darcy looks quickly up at Snape, wrapping her arms around herself as the wind makes her shiver. She hadn’t ever realized how tall Snape is, maybe just a few inches shorter than Lupin, but he still has a few inches on her. “Thank you for taking me.”

“The Headmaster has asked me to escort you,” Snape says. “If it were up to me, you would not have need of an honor guard.”

Darcy laughs weakly, and Snape gives her an incredulous, hardened look. “You’ve said that to me before, don’t you remember? When Sirius attacked the portrait of the Fat Lady, and you were my escort one day?”

“Here is fine.” Just inside the boundaries of the Hogwarts grounds, Snape turns back around and Darcy follows, shoulder to shoulder with him. “I remember. Can you walk faster?”

“Of course I can,” Darcy says. “It’s about the only useful thing these long legs of mine can do.” Her legs are aching, and she hates the constant walks between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. However, her thighs and calves are much thicker with muscle since she’s been out of school than she can remember, having not just been climbing many, many staircases. “I’m sorry about what Oliver said. He doesn’t understand what it’s like for me. He doesn’t understand anything about me.”

Snape doesn’t say anything for a long time, instead walking quicker. “Perhaps it is not my place to say so, but maybe now isn’t the time for you to be consorting with boys.”

“You’re quite right,” Darcy growls. “It’s _not_ your place to say so.” But part of her is privately quite pleased that Snape has said something—that he’s taken an interest in her personal life, insulting or not. “It’s cold. Can we go now?”

“At the tree line.”

They reach it within no time. Snape looks half a shadow, hidden in the darkness with his black traveling cloak, his black hair falling in curtains around his sallow face. When he stops, Darcy stops with him, and he holds out his hand for her, palm up. Darcy looks up into his face, hesitating for a moment. She finally decides to place her hand in his, disappointed that they’re cold, lacking any warmth, any comfort. As soon as she squeezes, they’re gone.

* * *

Snape follows her inside Grimmauld Place. There are voices coming from the kitchen, and she moves towards it, glancing over her shoulder to see that Snape is still there. Upon opening the door, Darcy blushes, taking an awkward step backwards into Snape’s chest when she finds Lupin and Tonks chuckling softly together at the table, a bottle of firewhisky in between them. “Oh, sorry,” she manages to gasp, feeling Snape’s fingers curl around her arm. This is something that doesn’t escape Lupin’s notice, and Darcy’s stomach churns when she notices his eyes flick to Snape’s hand. “Where’s Sirius?”

“Sleeping,” Lupin answers, clutching his glass of firewhisky tightly. “He thought you weren’t coming.”

“Where’s Gemma?”

Snape’s hand moves slowly from her arm to the nape of her neck, and Lupin’s eyes continue to follow Snape’s movements. His touch is uncomfortable, likely to rile Lupin up—Darcy has reason to suspect that a lot of things Snape does are solely to annoy both Lupin and Sirius. But at the sight of Lupin and Tonks drinking together, alone, Darcy would rather have Snape at her side.

“Gemma’s working overnight,” Lupin says slowly, narrowing his eyes. “She’ll be back in the morning.”

“Oh.” Darcy wishes she would stop saying that. She had hoped Gemma would be around when she arrived, if not to sleep beside someone at night. Sleeping alone five days a week gets quite old, after all. She curses herself for being so grown now; for a moment, she wishes she were five-years-old again, just to be able to wander into Sirius’s bedroom, to fall asleep against his chest like in her old photographs. “I’ll, er—I’ll be going to sleep, then.”

“Goodnight, Darcy,” Lupin says, before Darcy closes the door on them.

Snape’s hand falls back to his side. Darcy gives him a forced smile. “Thank you,” she whispers. “I’ll see you Monday.”

Snape clenches his jaw, working it furiously for a few moments, looking as if he wants to say something he probably shouldn’t. “You shouldn’t need reminding,” he says finally, and Darcy is surprised to hear his voice is much softer and less sharp than it usually is. “But there are more important things in the world than boys. You have enough on your plate at the moment. Your inspection results will be coming back on Monday—why don’t you take the weekend to straighten out your priorities?”

She hates him for saying it, for speaking the truth, but Darcy expects nothing less from Snape. And she hates herself more for knowing that he’s right. “Yes, Professor.”

“Goodnight, Darcy.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

But Darcy doesn’t immediately go to sleep. She lays, fully clothed, on the bed, lighting up a cigarette and opening her photo album. She flips through the pages slowly, and after about half an hour, as she lights up her fifth cigarette already, there’s a knock on the door.

“Can I come in?”

Darcy hesitates, reluctant to see Lupin at all. The thought of him actually pursuing something with Tonks makes her almost sick to her stomach. But then again, Darcy reminds herself— _I’m dating Oliver, what does it matter who Lupin goes after? They were just talking, that’s all. He loves me, loves me so much that he’d come to see me_. Reminding herself of that fact makes her feel much better.

“Yes,” she says, and the door opens immediately. Darcy closes the photo album and takes a long pull off her cigarette as Lupin enters the room, closing the door behind him. “I hope you haven’t left Tonks alone.”

“I haven’t,” Lupin says, frowning. He takes a step forwards. “She only came to relay news, and she asked if I wanted a drink.” He moves still closer, swiping the burning cigarette from between her lips to take a drag himself. “You shouldn’t smoke. It’ll kill you.”

“Voldemort would be delighted.”

Lupin gives her a very serious look. “That’s not funny.” He holds out the cigarette for Darcy, and she takes it gingerly between her fingers. “How did your inspection go?”

Though the topic is not one she’s fond of, she’s quite glad Lupin has brought it up. She hasn’t told anyone really how it went, not wanting anyone to worry, and not wanting to have to dwell on the threat Umbridge had given her. “The class went well,” she answers, pulling her feet up to allow Lupin a seat on the foot of the bed. He takes the seat with a small smile. “Professor Snape gave me lesson plans—plans that he was sure would make Umbridge happy. Class went well, it was just...what she told me afterwards.”

Lupin raises his eyes expectantly. “What did she say?”

Darcy sighs, looking away. “She asked where I go at weekends. She knows, I think, that I’m coming home to you and Sirius. She has no proof of it, but she knows.”

Her words linger awkwardly in the air between them. “Sirius told me she almost caught him in the fire. I hope she didn’t give you a hard time.”

“No, she didn’t.” Darcy smiles, purely out of relief. “Snape covered for me—told me I was with him checking on my potion.”

“Right.”

Darcy puts her cigarette out. The silence is heavy and awkward, not at all the comfortable silence she’s used to with Lupin. “Remus,” she breathes. “Why did you come that night? When I was with Oliver?”

Lupin runs a hand through his graying hair. It’s only then does Darcy realize how much grayer it’s actually gotten. His face is more lined, more rugged, the beard on his face slightly patchy and uneven and uncared for. “You know why I went,” he whispers, looking away from her. “Don’t make me say it.”

She considers for a moment dropping the subject, but her heart begins to race, and her lips are aching to be kissed by him— _no_ , she scolds herself, _I won’t do that to Oliver._ “I want to hear you say it.”

Lupin doesn’t look angry with her request, but defeated, and absolutely pathetic. “I don’t want you to be with Oliver.”

Darcy’s heart flutters madly, and they look at each other for a long time. “I don’t want you to be with Tonks.”

He chuckles, rubbing the scruff on his face. “I have no intention of being with Tonks.”

“You had no intention of being with me when we met on the train, either.”

“That was different,” Lupin counters. “ _You_ were different.”

“How?” Darcy asks. “Tonks is young, funny. She’s beautiful, and she isn’t weighed down with guilt and trauma and abuse and—she is infinitely better than me in every way. You deserve someone like her.”

“Darcy,” he chuckles again. “Come on. Stop that.”

“What gives you the right to walk out on me, to make it quite plain that it’s over, and then show up while I’m on a date?” Darcy asks, her eyebrows knitting together. “Why do you have to make me love you so damn much? I thought you were going to stay away.”

Lupin sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t bear to be apart from you, Darcy. To not know if you’re safe, to not know if you’re happy. You were my dearest friend—my only real friend for the first time in so long.” He moves closer to her, and Darcy—afraid that the closeness will ignite her feelings for him—pulls her legs up to her chest. “Every weekend—every time I see you—some selfish part of me wishes you would choose to stay. Part of me wishes you’ll want to leave Hogwarts for a real home.”

Darcy tucks her hair behind her ears. “Why are you telling me this?” she asks him quietly. “I want to be with you.”

“You’re not ready for what I want, and you know it,” Lupin answers. “I’m not going to force you into that.”

“So what’s going to happen, then? I have to live seeing you only on weekends? I have to live with the knowledge that you don’t want me to see anyone else? I have to live the idea of you and another woman?” Darcy shakes her head. “And all the while, you tell me it can’t happen, that it’s over, that I’m not yours anymore—but then I must listen to you tell me that you love me?”

“I’m no good at this stuff, Darcy.” Lupin looks away quickly. “I never meant to hurt you, and I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” she says breathlessly.

His eyes flick up and down her, and Darcy feels herself blushing furiously. “How serious is it between you and Oliver?”

Apparently, she’s able to blush even harder. “We’ve only been on two dates, _three_ if you count the gala, and I don’t see what this has to do with—”

But Lupin cuts her off, moving so quickly she wouldn’t have believed it of him. His lips crash against hers and their teeth class, but Darcy instinctively wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. _He is doing the same thing to me that I was doing to Oliver in school_ , she thinks. _But I love it_. Darcy opens her mouth, granting him entrance, deepening the kiss and allowing Lupin to lay her back down on the bed. But when his tongue brushes against hers for a brief second, she squirms and breaks the kiss.

Both of them panting heavily, Darcy gasps, “We’re not very good at this, are we? Being broken up?”

“It’s much harder than I anticipated,” he growls in her ear. “I’ve never enjoyed kissing someone as much I enjoy kissing you.”

“I’m flattered,” she breathes against his lips. “Haven’t you learned yet, that flattery gets you nowhere?”

“It was worth a shot,” he whispers, kissing her hard again and pulling away far too soon. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“It’s a little late for doubts.” Darcy touches his face, tracing his jawline like she used to be able to do whenever she wanted. He lets her, lets her fingers touch the faint scars on his face, hidden by the coarse beard he’s grown in. The scene of him hovering above her, so content and so comfortable with her touch reminds her of better days. “We were happy, weren’t we?”

Lupin takes a moment to answer, brushing the tip of his nose against Darcy’s. “Yes,” he says. “We were.”

Darcy closes her eyes, relishing the feel of his lips pressing softly against her own. “I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.” She brushes her thumb over his cheek, smiling—hoping that she will be granted this one last night. “Stay with me, and in the morning we can pretend this never happened.” He seems reluctant, but Darcy kisses the corner of his mouth. “It’s only sleeping.”

It takes him a moment to utter the words, but when he does, it makes Darcy’s heart leap with joy. “All right.”


	28. Chapter 28

Darcy wakes with a start, sitting up immediately and yelping, panting and drenched in cold sweat. The room is still pitch dark, the light of a half moon filtering through the grimy window and between the velvet curtains. Her heart is racing so quickly in her chest it makes her feel faint, and her stomach churns with the images of Harry and Lupin and Gemma and Snape dead before her eyes. She clutches her stomach, feeling nauseous, trying to forget the color of their blood, the look of their pained faces. She’d seen her mother again tonight, kissing Darcy’s forehead, her nose, her lips. Shaking, Darcy clears her throat, running her fingers through her damp hair and fighting the urge to vomit. Her breathing somewhat controlled, she slips back under the blankets, staring up at the ceiling.

At the feel of fingertips running over her thigh, Darcy screams. For a moment, she feels she’s stuck in a nightmare still, having forgotten she wasn’t alone. Her heart pounds violently now, and Darcy moves quickly away—or tries to. Lupin wraps an arm around her, rolling her over in order to look at her face. Darcy squirms for a moment.

“Darcy, my love, it’s me—” In the darkness, she can’t even see his face. His warm hand jumps to her face, gently clutching her cheeks and holding her face steady. “It’s only me, Darcy, you’re all right. It was just a dream.”

As Darcy’s eyes adjust to the blackness, she can make out—just barely—the raised eyebrows and slightly parted lips, wearing an expression that is clearly free of worry or concern, an expression that states he’s done this many times before. He smiles very slightly as her breath slows and evens out, but they both tense at the sound of footsteps coming fast towards her bedroom. Lupin releases her face, unhooks his arm around her, and runs a hand through his hair as the door bursts open.

“I heard screaming,” Sirius pants, holding his lit wand up and filling the bedroom with a white-blue glow. Darcy shields her eyes as Sirius’s own eyes fall onto the scene that’s presented itself to him. “What’s going on here?”

While Darcy’s quite glad they’re still fully clothed, it’s hard to explain to her godfather why Lupin is beside her in the first place. Lupin is bleary-eyed, her nightmare clearly had woken him from a deep sleep, and he rubs his eyes. “I can explain,” he murmurs. “We were only sleeping—”

“I had a nightmare,” Darcy tells Sirius, with a bite of impatience in her voice. “That’s all.”

Sirius lowers his wand. “Why are you sleeping together?”

“It’s none of your business,” Darcy snaps again. She settles back against her pillow, her back to Sirius. Lupin only sighs, exasperated, and lies back down beside her, careful to leave some distance between them.

“Are you all right?” Sirius asks again, and Darcy hears the creaking of the flooring as he takes a step forward.

“I’m fine,” she answers.

Sirius leaves them without another word, but Darcy’s ears catch the sound of him grumbling under his breath as he so often does. It’s only when his footsteps recede completely and they hear the shutting of his bedroom door that they speak. Lupin puts a comforting hand upon her arm, squeezing gently before letting go.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes, suddenly feeling a rush of shame. The one night he’s finally slept beside her again and she has a nightmare. It’s not as if he hasn’t woken with her like before, but Darcy blushes anyway. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize,” Lupin whispers with a half-smile. Darcy can’t help but to smile back, her heart racing still (though she’s sure it has nothing to do with her dream, and more to do with Lupin grinning at her). His smile falters then, and he shifts, the better to look at her. “Do you still have nightmares often?”

She hesitates, but eventually nods very slowly. “I always see everyone dead—just like Mrs. Weasley’s boggart. Harry, Gemma…you.” Darcy feels maybe it’s best to leave out the fact that Snape is a part of these dreams, as well.

Lupin doesn’t seem at all surprised by this revelation. “It’s only a dream,” he assures her softly, smoothing back her hair with the backs of his fingers. Darcy’s breath hitches at his touch. Part of her wishes he’d ask her to marry him again, right now, because surely she wouldn’t be able to refuse. “Go back to sleep, Darcy.”

“I can’t,” she frowns. “I’m afraid, Remus. I’m so afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” Lupin’s voice is so soft, as if he thinks Sirius is still outside with his ear to the door. His fingers continue to run through her hair, calming her, easing her fears, soothing her. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”

It’s much easier for Darcy to come undone around Lupin than Oliver Wood. As soon as he requests the truth, so confidently, Darcy is happy to oblige him. But she hates herself as the hot tears fill her eyes, trying to force them not to fall. “Everything,” she confesses, a weight off her chest and shoulders. “I’m afraid of everything. I’m afraid of Umbridge—afraid she’ll send Sirius back to Azkaban, afraid she’ll send _me_ to Azkaban. I’m afraid she’ll find out about our Defense lessons and expel Harry. I’m afraid that Voldemort is getting nearer every time Harry’s scar hurts. I’m—”

Lupin blinks, expecting her to continue after her abrupt pause. “What is it?”

Darcy inhales deeply. “I’m afraid of being alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Lupin smiles weakly. “You have a family now, Darcy.”

“I’m alone at Hogwarts,” she continues, wishing he could _understand_. It had been _easy_ with him at her side during her seventh year—almost _too_ easy with his reassuring words and comforting touch. Even last year, with Gemma around and with Lupin coming to be with her every so often, they had made it easier. “Harry is going through so much right now, and Hermione and Ron are wonderful and I love them so much—I really do—but…you understand, don’t you?”

“Do I understand that you’re having trouble finding your place among three fifteen-year-olds?” Lupin asks, cocking an eyebrow and chuckling.

“I love it here,” Darcy whispers, stretching her neck out, hoping he’ll kiss her. While neither of them close the distance, Lupin’s eyes flick down to her lips and back up to her eyes more than necessary. “I love everything about this place. I love coming home on weekends, spending evenings by the fire with Sirius, having sleepovers with Gemma, making dinner for everyone. I _love_ it here.”

She waits a moment, if only to see if he’ll kiss her. Still, he doesn’t.

“I spent so many years alone,” she sighs, the memory of her years before Hogwarts nearly painful. Darcy tries hard not to remember those days, but the memories always creep up on her unsuspecting, as if happy to torture her. “I had no one to talk to—I had Harry, of course, but why would I ever tell him my troubles and worries and fears? He was just a boy, and I didn’t want him to know that I wasn’t okay. But even so—even without anyone to talk to, or anyone to love me like a mother or father, I survived.”

Lupin tangles his fingers in her dark red hair, peppering her cheeks with sweet, soft kisses as hot tears stain her face. It’s almost unreal—what she’s been dreaming of—sharing a bed with this man that she loves, being the recipient of his kisses that she loves so much.

“It was always just a dream—a real family, a real home. Not just Hogwarts, the only place I had, but somewhere I chose to be because I loved it,” she finishes, closing her eyes. “Do you understand _why_ I have to go back to Hogwarts?”

“Tell me.”

“For Harry. It’s always for Harry,” Darcy cries. “I’m so worried about him—”

“You shouldn’t be,” Lupin says. “You’re not alone in this anymore. I promise you, nothing will happen to him. Voldemort will not have him.”

Though Darcy eyes are closed, Lupin doesn’t move his hand away. She can feel his callused fingertips tracing her sharp jawline, touching her in ways that he hasn’t touched her in a long time. His fingers touch her cheekbone, he tucks her hair behind her ears, his thumb brushes over her lips and her heart stops for a moment. “What are you doing?” she whispers, eyes still closed as she feels his finger against her lips once more.

“Do the other boys touch you like this?”

“The other boys?” Darcy repeats, almost laughing. “There’s only Oliver.”

“Does Oliver touch you like this?”

Darcy’s eyes flutter open to find Lupin much closer than she’d thought. “No,” she answers in a choked voice, unable to look away from his lips. “No one has ever touched me the way you do.”

Lupin cups her cheek in his palm and Darcy doesn’t stop herself from nuzzling into it. This is how she wants it to be all the time—to wake from a nightmare and not have to be alone, to have someone to comfort and console her, someone to remind her that she is loved. Chills run down her spine as his fingers whisper against her inner thigh. “Darcy, let me take care of you,” he murmurs. “Just for the night, let me take care of you, please.”

It’s hard to refuse him, especially when his lips are mere inches from hers, and his eyebrows are knitted together with innocent curiosity—a pleading look, the kind of look he’d give her when he was still her teacher and sought her permission for a gentle touch between the legs, a chaste kiss on her lips. Those looks had not been frequent, but it had always lit a fire in Darcy’s chest, setting her heart to throbbing fit to burst. She knows Lupin is prepared for rejection, just as he had always been when things had first started with them, but she _wants_ him so badly—she _needs_ him.

Darcy looks him over for a moment. She thinks of Oliver, so sweet to her but unable to understand. It’s not his fault. It’s not his fault that Darcy is still in love with Lupin and always will be. It’s not his fault that Darcy is broken and hurting and sad. Of course she feels sorry, but she needs it— _craves_ it—touch, love, the validation that comes with someone treating her body like a temple, the pleasure that comes from experienced hands and an eager mouth.

“Why do you want to do this for me?”

For a moment, Lupin looks puzzled, not having expected her to ask such a question. “Because I—” He hesitates, shifting uncomfortably. “I just want to take care of you.”

Darcy bites down on her bottom lip. “Okay.” _And in the morning, we’ll pretend it never happened. I’ll pretend I don’t want to do it over and over._

Hesitantly and slowly, as if doing this against his better judgement, Lupin finally kisses her. His mouth is warm and sweet on hers, moving rhythmically against Darcy’s lips. The familiar feel of the hair on his face scratching at her chin and upper lip and at the corners of her mouth, despite the slight discomfort, is something she’s embarrassed to admit she’s missed. She can’t help but wonder if he’s kissed other women since her, but Darcy could never bring herself to ask, could never bear to see the smug smile on Lupin’s face when he realizes she’s jealous. The thought of him being with someone else, with a woman far prettier and far more experienced than Darcy makes her stomach churn, and she isn’t sure exactly how Lupin is able to sense it.

“Why are you nervous?” he whispers against her skin, holding her face with one hand and kissing her exposed neck, making goosebumps rise on her skin.

“I’m not nervous,” she lies, not wanting to sound like a trembling schoolgirl, preparing for her first time. Lupin lifts his head to look down at her, skeptical. “I’m _not_ nervous.”

A boyish grin breaks across his face. “If you say so.”

Darcy frowns at the sight of that stupid smug smile—the smile she knew would eventually cross his face. “You can be such a— _ah_ —”

“What’s that?” Lupin purrs in her ear, his entire body moving along with his fingers. His fingers are long, warm, electricity shooting through her body with each touch. She curses him for being so confident with her body, for still knowing where and how she likes being touched, for using that knowledge against her, to keep her loving him just as much as she did the first time they’d slept together. “Say it, Darcy.”

“I hate you,” she breathes, and it’s only partially true. Darcy hates the arrogance that surrounds him when he touches her, as if she’s still his, as if it’s his right. But she cannot deny it feels good, and if she stops hating Lupin for thirty minutes or so, she will be happy. Why can’t she let herself just enjoy it? Why can’t she just let go of her shame and and guilt and be _happy_? “I _hate_ you.”

“No, you don’t,” he mutters against her lips. Darcy knows that once they’re out of bed together, once they’re around others and not aching with the desire to be touched, Lupin will turn into a stammering and blushing mess again, not half so confident when talking about his feelings as he is when he’s inside of her.

Lupin is true to his word, however. He does take care of her, makes her feel things she hasn’t felt for months, slowly coerces her out of her clothes and covers every inch of flesh with kisses. This is what it is like to be loved—this is what it is like to be worshipped. Darcy can’t imagine the following morning, having to pretend as if he hadn’t made her squirm and writhe, having to pretend he hadn’t solicited soft moans and whines and sounds from her that she hasn’t made in so long.

And when Darcy inhales sharply, closing her eyes to allow a wave of pleasure to wash over her, she’s surprised at how hard it hits her. Fingers curling inside of her, his face inches from her own, watching her progression through the expressions on her face, his lips curling into a smile when she finally opens her eyes again. “Call me kitten,” she nearly begs, hardly able to speak. “ _Please_.”

He whispers it in her ear, and at the single word, Darcy comes undone. She kisses him hard, not able to hold back any longer, not able to hate him for making her love him. Darcy grabs at his hair, sighing loudly into his open mouth, riding the wave of pleasure out against his fingers, her breath coming in short gasps.

Kissing her once more, quick and soft, his hand slipping out of her underwear to cup her cheek again, Darcy whispers, “I love you.”

Lupin furrows his brow, holding himself over her, his hair falling into his eyes. He doesn’t answer, clenching his jaw, and Darcy combs his hair back with her fingers. “Darcy—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she says quickly, blushing. “I just—I wanted you to know.”

They don’t speak again afterwards, but as they settle back down to go to sleep and Darcy closes her eyes for the last time that night, the backs of Lupin’s fingers just barely brush against hers. Darcy smiles into her pillow, twining their fingers together loosely and falling asleep.

* * *

_NEWLY STATED HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY, DOLORES UMBRIDGE, INTRODUCES NEW LEGISLATION TO PROTECT PUBLIC AGAINST WEREWOLVES_

_The proposal was announced Friday evening at the Ministry of Magic in London. To some, an unethical cause for concern; to others, a solution to keeping our streets safer. A full copy of the legislation has not been released to the public as of yet, but here is what we know:_

_The Werewolf Registry will be, under this legislation, given more staff to maintain the Register. The Werewolf Register has been, since its conceivement, voluntary, but under new legislation will be mandatory for all werewolves in Britain. Anyone found to be housing non-registered werewolves will be punished as seen fit._

_Werewolves will be issued work passes by the Ministry of Magic after passing a series of tests. Werewolves not given work passes will be ineligible for hire._

_Werewolves will, by law, be required to disclose their lycanthropy to all employers and landlords before hire or sale of property._

_Dolores Umbridge writes, from her new office at Hogwarts, that ‘the time has come for measures to be imposed after many years of turning a blind eye. The safety of our people—of the children—is of utmost importance.’_

Darcy finishes reading outloud and lowers the paper slowly, feeling nauseous. Beside her, Gemma’s hands are over her face. Sirius strokes the coarse beard on his face absently from the head of the table. Lupin, seated in between a horrified looking Emily and a green-tinged Tonks, is drained of all color. His hands find his hair, and Darcy feels so sorry she could cry.

“It’s only a proposal,” Emily says quietly, breaking the heavy silence and sounding very sincere and gentle. Lupin doesn’t even look at her. “There’s no way it would pass—it’s unethical and immoral and prejudice at its worst.”

“It’s a threat,” Gemma adds grimly, pulling the _Daily Prophet_ towards her. “She’s declaring war on you, Darcy, and she isn’t afraid to hit you where it hurts.”

“This wouldn’t be the first time Umbridge has brought something outrageous to the table,” Tonks frowns, looking uncharacteristically serious. “McGonagall was telling me they’ve scrapped tons of her ideas, calling her an extremist.”

Darcy’s throat feels very dry and very constricted as she stares down at the table. Her stomach twists violently at the thought of Lupin living a life under Umbridge’s rule, of being treated like an animal, like a lesser person. _He has never been anything but kind to me, and this is how I repay him_? Darcy feels tears prickle painfully. She closes her eyes. _This is my fault. It’s my fault, all my fault._

“Well,” Sirius says slowly. “Regardless if it passes or not, you’re hiding here, Moony. You’re safe here. No one here will let them register you.”

“You’re not already on the Register, are you?” Gemma asks curiously, and Darcy opens her eyes to find Lupin has his own closed.

He heaves a deep sigh. “No,” he answers finally. “My father didn’t want people knowing what I was. But they know who I am now—if they were to see my name was missing from a mandatory Register—”

“There won’t _be_ a mandatory Register,” Emily cuts across him. Lupin turns to look at her, narrowing his eyes in confusion as if seeing her for the first time. “Umbridge is out of her mind if she thinks anyone in their right mind would pass this. The Ministry is against Dumbledore and Harry, but that doesn’t mean they’re in favor of actively stripping werewolves of all their basic, human rights.”

“It’s a political stunt.” Tonks reaches out, placing a hand on Lupin’s forearm. He flinches, and Darcy knows why—Tonks’s fingers have attempted to curl around the violent bite mark hidden under his sleeve. She retracts her hand hastily, ears turning pink. “A stupid one, at that. Nothing will come from this. Remus—”

“Nothing will come from this?” Lupin asks incredulously, his voice a little higher than usual, his face still white as a ghost. “Tonks, Umbridge has lost us any chance of recruiting the werewolves to the Order.”

“We did it without the werewolves last time,” Sirius reminds him, but Lupin only scowls. “Its a blow, but we’ll do it again this time.”

“At what cost?” Lupin hisses. “More than half our people died last time. The werewolves would have bolstered our numbers, would have given us a little extra padding—”

“You would have let them die instead of you?” Emily asks dangerously. Her tone is icy and dripping with venom, and Lupin doesn’t seem at all surprised by her sudden change in personality. This is the Emily he’s used to. “You would have thrown them to Voldemort like bait? Like their lives are worth less than yours?”

“No, I didn’t say that,” Lupin retorts shortly. “What we need are numbers. With Hagrid not back yet, I have a hard time believing he convinced any giants to come over to our side, the dementors are Voldemort’s, and now Umbridge has pushed away the werewolves in an effort to hurt Darcy. Do you think the werewolves will be kind to Darcy because she donated some money? Do you think they’ll make sure she’s safe just because she claims to be their ally?”

Darcy feels sick, almost drunk. The urge to vomit is strong, and she clutches her stomach, listening to everyone argue. Only Gemma stays out of it, aside from Darcy, looking deep in though and tapping her chin in a pensive sort of way. She looks weary and exhausted, shadows under her eyes and her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, several loose strands framing her face. Gemma hadn’t even had the chance to retreat to the bedroom to sleep, for Emily had cornered her with the news the moment she’d entered Grimmauld Place.

Finally, Darcy doesn’t think she can handle listening to it anymore—the knowledge that she’s done this, that she’s the reason this all happened…

Darcy feels she should have known going to the gala was a stupid idea—she should have known that making a stand was an even stupider idea. It had all seemed too good to be true, and she should have known that.

She pushes her chair away, getting to her feet. Her legs are shaky, and Darcy stumbles, grabbing the back of Gemma’s chair. Everyone immediately stops talking, eyes flicking to her. Darcy blushes furiously. “I just need to use the bathroom,” she hisses, avoiding everyone’s eyes.

“I’ll go with you,” Gemma insists, grabbing Darcy’s hand and pulling her from the kitchen. Emily follows at the last moment, leaving Lupin with his head in his hands, Tonks muttering soothingly to him while Sirius pours three glasses of brandy from a dusty bottle. The door closes behind Emily.

In silence, they make their way up the stairs, Darcy trailing awkwardly behind, being half-dragged by the hand. Gemma locks the three of them in the bathroom, sighing. “Shit, huh?”

“This is all my fault,” Darcy cries, the tears coming from nowhere. Emily sits Darcy on the toilet and Gemma pulls a pack of cigarettes from the deep pocket of her St Mungo’s robes, placing one between Darcy’s lips and lighting it. “I never should have publicly donated—I should have done it anonymously—it’s all my fault—”

“No, Darcy, it’s not,” Emily says, firmly. “You did a good thing—a _selfless_ thing, and it’s no one’s fault but Umbridge’s for taking advantage of that. It’s not your fault she’s an evil woman.”

“This is bad, though,” Gemma sighs, pacing the length of the crowded bathroom, still apparently thinking hard. “There’s no way Umbridge drafted an entire law in a week—she had to have been saving that for something like this. What if it’s not the only one? What if she’s got plenty of anti-werewolf legislation and she’s just waiting for the right moment to try to pass it? What if she has more than just anti-werewolf legislation?”

“I told you, it won’t pass,” Emily repeats, trying her best to sound reassuring. She smiles weakly down at Darcy, puffing on her cigarette and crying softly. “I’m sure she’s only done this to hurt you, Darcy. It’s awful—it’s sickening. And Lupin’s right.” Emily frowns suddenly, turning to Gemma. “The werewolves won’t want anything to do with us now. Surely Voldemort will seize the opportunity and promise the werewolves a better life?”

“I’m sure of it,” Gemma replies, but she sounds distracted. She stops her pacing, lighting up her own cigarette and taking a very long pull. The bathroom fills with smoke. “Lupin’s safe here from any anti-werewolf laws if any were to pass, and that’s the most pressing issue…and with him being safe…”

Emily narrows her eyes, kneeling beside Darcy and rubbing her back. “What are you plotting?” she asks.

“You-Know-Who may have won over the werewolves of a mind with Fenrir Greyback,” Gemma begins, and a tired smile spreads across her face. “There’s no chance of us recruiting them all—I mean, we were never going to recruit them _all_ , but…I don’t think they’re all lost…”

“No, Gemma,” Emily snaps. “We need to wait for this law to to fail before making our move. We can’t send Lupin out there recruiting with all of this going on. It’s too dangerous, and with everyone knowing already what he is—”

“I’m not talking about Lupin,” Gemma smiles—a wicked smile, a scheming smile. Darcy looks her in the eyes, lowering her cigarette from her lips as it continues to burn quickly. “I’m talking about you, Darcy.”

“Me?” Darcy scoffs. “Haven’t I already done enough? Look at what a donation has done—I’m not going to make it my job to make Remus’s life harder—”

“This is war, Darcy,” Gemma continues, pacing again and lighting a new cigarette. “I told you, Lupin’s safe here. People have hated werewolves long before you were even thought of, Darcy. That’s just how it is.”

“So you’re suggesting that we do nothing? That we don’t even try to make this right?” Emily frowns, a slight crease appearing between her eyebrows.

“We can’t make this right—Darcy has no pull within the Ministry,” Gemma explains. “But that’s why this could work so well. Not all the werewolves are lost to us, and who better to recruit them than Darcy?”

“Why would they listen to anything I say?” Darcy asks, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Everything seems to be happening so quickly, and without time to properly dwell on her guilty feelings, Darcy begins to feel emboldened again. “I don’t know—maybe Remus is the best person to—”

“Let’s not give Umbridge any reason to attempt to track him down right now. Let’s not give her any reason to believe we even know where he is or what he’s doing,” Gemma says, shrugging her shoulders. Darcy feels a surge of affection for both Gemma and Emily for their determination in keeping Lupin safe. “But _you_ —it’s common knowledge that you’ve been romantically involved with a werewolf, you’ve publicly donated to a fund to help werewolves, and you’re clearly not associated with the Ministry or their anti-werewolf rhetoric. It may not draw in the Greybacks, but it _could_  draw in the people like Lupin and those that are not werewolves themselves, but sympathetic.”

“And what exactly are you suggesting I do?” Darcy can’t hide her interest. The thought is tempting, but something gnaws at her stomach—guilt. _Haven’t I done enough damage_?

“We should start small,” Gemma says, a manic and passionate gleam in her eye not unlike Oliver Wood. “We don’t know what the public response will be like, so something small will give us some sort of idea. Plus, once we know how Umbridge will react to something small, we’ll have an advantage when we move onto bigger and better things.”

“Like what? I’m not supposed to leave Hogwarts or Grimmauld Place, so it’s not like I can appeal to them—”

“You won’t have to leave.” Gemma’s smile grows. “You’ll write an article, defending werewolves from being discriminated against so heavily and proving you’re someone to be trusted. Proving you’re a good person, unlike Umbridge.”

“The _Daily Prophet_ would never publish it,” Emily protests, shaking her head. She runs her fingers through her blonde hair, biting her cheek. “They’ll never publish anything with Darcy’s name on it.”

“We don’t need the _Prophet_ ,” Gemma scoffs, waving an impatient hand at Emily. She leans against the tiled wall, looking pleased with herself. “Mum has a friend who works for editing at _Witch Weekly_ , and the _Quibbler_ might publish it if we put up a decent amount of money. They’ll publish near anything, anyway.”

Emily crosses her arms over her chest, sharing a very skeptical and nervous look with Darcy. “No offense, but anyone who reads the _Quibbler_ probably isn’t anyone we want fighting for us. And _Witch Weekly_ doesn’t really seem the type of magazine to publish pro-werewolf op-ed’s.”

“Your mum would do that for you?” Darcy raises an eyebrow, trying to imagine a Death Eater insisting on an article by Darcy Potter being published for the world to see. “She would do that for me?”

Gemma’s smile falters, but she still looks relatively confident. “I guess we’ll find out.” She stands up straight again, looking expectantly at Darcy. “What do you say, Darcy? You wanted to make a difference, didn’t you? You wanted to be a part of the Order?”

“I did, but—” Darcy shifts uncomfortably. “Not like this, Gemma. I don’t want to burden Remus—I can’t knowingly make his life worse. I’m sure he’d hate the very idea of me—”

“Then don’t tell him,” Emily interrupts, speaking as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “He doesn’t need to know.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, my little lion?” Gemma smirks, almost desperate. “Don’t you want to prove to Umbridge that you can play her own game just as well?”

“I tried to prove that to Umbridge by donating to your fund, and look where it’s gotten me—look where it’s gotten Remus,” Darcy says, her heart racing. Her palms are sweaty, and she wipes them on her pants. Only last night he’d been so sweet to her, had kissed her all over and touched her in places she was aching to be touched. And now, this morning, her stupid decisions have nearly ruined his life. “Professor Snape would kill me if he knew—”

“Why does Snape need to know?” Emily gives her a bewildered look. “Darcy, no one needs to know but us. We don’t even know that any magazines or papers will publish it yet.”

Darcy purses her lips. “All right, I’ll do it,” she whispers half-heartedly, and Emily and Gemma laugh out loud, grinning. But Darcy doesn’t smile with them—she can’t help but to feel that she’s just done Lupin a great disservice, and she hates herself for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Darcy](https://pin.it/emiccmamnwtbrv)   
>  [Gemma](https://pin.it/mnjroxensrxqk3)   
>  [Emily](https://pin.it/c32tiazsd5zqfs)
> 
> I was asked who I imagine as my original characters as, and I didn’t really have an answer because I don’t picture anyone specific, but I do have Pinterest boards dedicated to them because I’m a slut for Pinterest. So, here you go!


	29. Chapter 29

“Go ahead, darling, it’s all right. Buckbeak remembers you.”

Darcy reaches out slowly, her fingers outstretched. Buckbeak’s feathers and coat are still smooth and silky soft, but he definitely doesn’t look well. By the amount of bones scattered at their feet, it seems Sirius has been feeding him well on a diet of rats and ferrets and other small animals (though the sight of small bones make her sweat slightly at the thought of the Chamber of Secrets), but the hippogriff is restless and weak looking. Darcy highly doubts Buckbeak would be able to carry four people on his back now, not that he looks like he really wants to in the first place. But he allows Darcy to stroke his face and his blue-gray feathers, closing his large eyes and nuzzling against her palm.

Sirius’s mother’s room is the largest bedroom in the house by far, a stark contrast to Sirius’s own red and gold themed room. The curtains here are heavy, velvet, emerald green ones that block out the sunlight attempting to penetrate the grime on the enormous bay window. A few empty portrait frames are still hanging on the walls, the dark and dusty backdrops somewhat ominous—more than likely, the painted people just couldn’t bear to have only a hippogriff for company, but that begs the question—where did they go? Regardless, the bedroom has not been cleaned like so many of the others. The corners of the room are still covered with thick layers of dust, the parts of the flooring where Buckbeak has not stepped or investigated quite yet; cobwebs hang from the ceiling, dangling from the ancient looking chandelier, looking as if they’ve been disturbed recently; there are bloodstains on the sheets and blankets of the wide bed, presumably from Buckbeak tearing apart his dinner atop it, but the sight still makes Darcy squirm. Even the air seems dirty in here—it seems thick, choked with dust, making it hard to breathe.

But with Sirius at her side, Darcy doesn’t feel the need to make a break for the door. She doesn’t feel suffocated by fear, especially when he puts a hand on her shoulder.

Darcy turns away to face her godfather. Even now, so long after they’d reunited in the Shrieking Shack, she still feels in awe of him. The fact that he is here, that he is alive, that everything she had been dreaming of regarding him had turned out to be true. It all overwhelms her still, and Darcy moves forwards a few steps before taking one backwards, unsure of how close to stand to him, hyper aware of the degree of awkwardness that hovers between them. Sometimes Darcy just wants to touch him—to place a hand to his cheek to remind herself this isn’t a dream, to wrap her arms around him and nuzzle into his chest to remind herself that she is not alone.

She can’t help that she feels half a little girl again while she’s around Sirius. Maybe it’s because Sirius treats her like a little girl himself, but Darcy doesn’t mind. She only regrets that she’s twenty now, not five, and that she’s missed out on all the years that she could have been held, that she could have fallen asleep against someone’s chest, that she could have been kissed before bed each night. The knowledge that Darcy has missed out on those things makes her heart ache painfully.

“Sirius,” she begins, and at her pained expression, Sirius takes her hands in his. The gesture is so small, so innocent, so comforting, that Darcy almost crumbles. “What the _Daily Prophet_ said—the legislation against werewolves, I—was that my fault?”

“No,” Sirius answers quickly. She thought hearing him say it would make her feel better, but Darcy doesn’t think she really believes him. “It’s not. Your friend—Emily—she’s right. The legislation will not pass, and Remus will not be subjected to that.”

Darcy’s vision blurs as tears well up in her eyes at the very thought of Lupin living a life solely based around his lycanthropy. _Not that his entire life hasn’t been like that already_ , she thinks. _But it would be my fault if it’s made worse_. “I never meant to—to _hurt_ him, or to make things harder for him,” she whispers, wiping at her tears, embarrassed and blushing. “I don’t want him to think it’s all my fault. I don’t want him to think I’m a terrible person—”

“Darcy, why would Remus ever think those things?” Sirius asks, scoffing slightly. He squeezes her hands gently, looking far older and far more serious than Darcy’s used to seeing him. Looking mildly uncomfortable, he adds, “He’s spoken of you a great deal.”

Darcy’s heart flutters. “What has he said?” she asks, trying to sound casual. “No—never mind, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”

Sirius nods, releasing her hands as Buckbeak nudges her gently in the back. Darcy jumps, but continues stroking his face. With a sharp pang in her chest, Darcy misses her sweet owl, Max.

She swallows hard, hesitantly resting her cheek against Buckbeak’s face. In a voice hardly more than a whisper, she rasps, “Can I ask you something?” Darcy shifts slightly, feeling the crunch of fragile bone beneath her shoe. She gasps audibly, inhaling very deeply to calm herself. “Shit, sorry.”

He pauses. “Anything, Darcy.”

Darcy finds it’s a lot harder to ask than she’d anticipated. “It’s just that—it’s something someone said to me,” she says. “And it occurred to me that I don’t know very much about Remus from when he was in school. He doesn’t like to talk about himself.”

“Who said this to you?” Sirius asks, cocking an eyebrow.

Panicking, Darcy lies quickly, “Professor McGonagall.” Sirius doesn’t seem convinced, but nods, allowing Darcy to go on. Clearing her throat, Darcy turns to Buckbeak, blushing. “Was Remus a bully in school?”

Sirius’s face darkens, anger flashing in his eyes, looking very much like Gemma when her rage boils over. “There’s only one person you know that I’m sure would have said that to you,” he snaps, and Darcy frowns. “Go on, then, Darcy. What has Snivellus been saying to you?”

But at the sound of Snape’s boyhood nickname, Darcy knows that she likely won’t get the full and complete truth out of Sirius, just as she isn’t likely to get an unbiased version out of Snape. “He didn’t say anything,” she answers quietly, wishing she hadn’t even brought it up. “I was only curious.”

Sirius sighs heavily, running a hand through his dark hair. “Maybe James and I could get a little…carried away. Your father and Snape hated each other,” he confesses, and Darcy’s surprised at him, raising her eyebrows. “We were only boys, and I’m not proud of what we did. But Remus, a bully? Not Remus—never Remus.” And then, Darcy sees a different emotion flicker in his eyes—hurt. “Stop looking at me like that, Darcy. Like when you see me, you’re remembering what I did to Snape.”

Darcy doesn’t answer. She isn’t sure that she’s ever heard Sirius speak so remorsefully in regards to Snape before. “How could I ever forget?” she whispers, shaking her head. “Snape saved _me_ from the same fate you nearly subjected him to. He saved me when I—” Darcy stops abruptly, half-forgetting she hadn’t told Sirius about what she’d done at the end of last term.

“We grew out of it,” Sirius insists softly, seemingly not worried about what Darcy had been about to say. His eyes rove her face, considering her, examining her closely as if seeing her for the first time. “That look, the same look Lily used to give us when she thought we’d gone too far.”

But Darcy doesn’t think Sirius quite understands. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be bullied—to be _hated_ —just because of who you are?” she asks carefully, knitting her eyebrows together. Darcy lowers her hand from Buckbeak’s face, ignoring his gentle and pleading nudges. “Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

Sirius is brought up short, opening and closing his mouth, looking away from her, ashamed. Instead of answering, however, Sirius reaches out for her, hesitating and looking into her face. Darcy softens, allowing her godfather to pull her into a hug. She closes her eyes, nuzzles her face into his shoulder, and for a little bit—just a few moments—Darcy almost feels she has her father back.

“I was so scared when Umbridge almost caught you,” Darcy breathes, crying against his skin. “I thought you were going to go back to Azkaban—I thought I’d never see you again—”

“Don’t worry,” he replies, stroking her hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

Lupin returns to Grimmauld Place (from where, no one will tell her) Saturday evening. Darcy and Gemma are in the bedroom, the door wide open, when they see him making his slow ascent up the stairs, a unopened bottle of brandy in his hand, looking very weary, as if the full moon is tomorrow. He meets both of their eyes for a moment before continuing past the room to his bedroom, where he slams the door shut.

After a few awkward and silent moments, Darcy and Gemma resume their conversation. “I think Emily has a crush on Sirius,” Darcy sighs, stretching out on the bed and laying her head in Gemma’s lap.

“I’ve noticed that, too,” Gemma chuckles. “Though, I don’t think Sirius has noticed.”

“She’s the last person I’d expected to have to scold about this.” Darcy looks up at Gemma, who’s grinning. “She can’t have a crush on my godfather. Isn’t that, like—part of girl code or something?”

“I’m glad to see _someone_ abides by the girl code,” Gemma snorts, shaking her head and running her fingers through Darcy’s tangled hair. There’s another pause where they can hear Emily’s high-pitched giggle coming from the kitchen, and Darcy scrunches her nose. “Don’t worry. Sirius wouldn’t go for one of your friends.”

“I went for one of his,” Darcy frowns. She suddenly picks up her wand from beside her, pointing it at the bedroom door and effectively shutting it with a _snap_! Darcy sits up abruptly, startling Gemma. “I have to tell you something.”

Gemma frowns. “What?”

“Actually, I have several things to tell you…”

Darcy begins by telling Gemma about her inspection Monday morning, and then scolding Gemma for telling Lupin about her date with Oliver, detailing his drunken appearance at the Three Broomsticks that night while she was naked and about to sleep with Oliver. Gemma listens with her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers, looking unbelieving, as if Lupin would never do something like that. Darcy explains how Lupin failed to commit, how he’d failed to tell her what she wanted to hear, and how he’d left and Darcy fucked Oliver Wood mainly out of spite.

“I’m so sorry, Darcy,” Gemma breathes, looking incredibly sympathetic. “We’d been drinking, and he was _so_ angry about Oliver being at the gala, and I told Lupin that you were going on a date with him—I never thought he’d actually show up.”

Darcy doesn’t need or seek an apology from Gemma. Instead, she continues detailing her and Oliver’s second date, how he hadn’t quite seemed to understand the trouble surrounding she and her brother at the present time, how Snape had come to collect her and what he’d said about ‘consorting with boys’. “You don’t think he had a point, do you?” Darcy asks nervously, wringing her hands together.

Gemma shrugs, considering her. “If you think you can handle dating and—whatever the hell else is going on, then don’t worry about what Snape says,” she smiles. “He’s only worried about your interactions with Umbridge. As long as you can balance your Hogwarts life with your outside life, then ignore him.”

Which brings Darcy to her last point, and the thing she’s most nervous to tell Gemma. She doesn’t know why she’s so nervous in the first place, as Gemma is very understanding and comforting and has always listened well to whatever Darcy’s had to say. But something doesn’t sit well with her when she thinks about revealing what she and Lupin had done just last night after talking about her dates with Oliver. But she tells Gemma all the same—tells her about the conversation they’d had before getting into bed together, and she tells Gemma about waking from her nightmare to find comfort in him. Darcy doesn’t spare Gemma any of the gory details, and blushes when she admits she’d told Lupin she loved him (“Oh, Darcy, you don’t say things like that to someone you’re not dating right after you have an orgasm—it’s insincere.”), feeling ashamed of herself.

The entire thing makes Gemma wary, it seems. She gives Darcy a hard stare, as if trying to read her mind. “Do you want to know what I think?”

“I don’t know,” Darcy says. “Do I?”

Gemma sighs. “I don’t think he really means to jerk you around, Darcy,” she explains gently. “I think he’s just very lonely, and very sad, and doesn’t understand that you’re unable to have a relationship with no strings attached.”

Darcy scoffs, her cheeks burning bright red. Her stomach knots. “What is _that_ supposed to mean? Of course I’m able to have a relationship with no strings attached.”

Gemma looks adoringly at Darcy, as a mother might look at her favorite child. It infuriates Darcy. “Come on, Darcy,” she laughs. “It’s nothing to be ashamed  
of, it’s just that you’re too…emotional to have a no strings attached relationship.”

A heavy silence follows this confession. Darcy blinks in surprise, unsure of what to say or how to feel. “Excuse me?”

“Darcy, you told Lupin you loved him because he touched you in the right places,” Gemma says, smiling. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be dating Oliver?”

“Two dates doesn’t make me his girlfriend,” Darcy snaps, feeling suddenly childish. She springs from the bed, crossing her arms over her chest and pacing. “Besides—what Remus and I have—I mean, it’s not—he held my hand and slept next to me—I didn’t even do anything to him—what is that supposed to mean if it’s a no strings attached relationship?”

“It means he’s lonely, Darcy,” Gemma answers, now looking apologetic. She leans back on her pillow, groaning as she gets comfortable and closing her eyes.

“He told me he doesn’t want me to be with Oliver.”

“Because _he_ wants to be with you.”

“Then why won’t he commit? Then why can’t we just— _be_ together?” Darcy hates herself for starting to cry. She wipes furiously at her tears, stopping her pacing in front of the mirror to look at herself. “Am I not pretty enough? Is that it? I’m not as pretty as you, or Tonks—and, oh _god_ , that’s it, isn’t it? He wants Tonks, doesn’t he?”

“Darcy, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I? _Am I_?” Darcy hears the shrill voice that comes out of her and, very possibly, thinks she may well be overreacting. “He doesn’t want to be with me—”

“Of course he wants to be with you,” Gemma laughs, sitting back up. “But he wants to be with _you_ , not you and Harry.”

“And how exactly do you come to that conclusion?”

Gemma shrugs. “Because he told me.”

Darcy splutters, flushing. “He just _told_ you? He just _tells_  you these things? Doesn’t he expect you to tell me?”

“I’m sure he expects me to tell you,” she replies. Gemma settles back down, pulling the blankets up over her. Darcy frowns at her, checking her watch, debating whether or not to slip into bed beside Gemma or check on Lupin. “Maybe that’s why he tells me in the first place.”

Darcy sighs, crawling into bed with Gemma. Once the lights are extinguished, Darcy cries against her pillow, Gemma’s arms around her.

* * *

Lupin doesn’t join them for breakfast, and Gemma only has time for a piece of toast before she’s off again to St Mungo’s. Darcy’s quiet throughout the meal, listening to Sirius tell a very detailed story about a particular prank he and his friends had pulled during fifth year. She holds her head up with one hand, toying with her eggs, not really hungry.

She hadn’t cried like that since the summer, maybe the beginning of term. The first few weeks without Lupin had been the worst—Harry had listened to her cry herself to sleep near every night, and she thought she’d cried all of her tears out. But now—with puffy and swollen eyes, bloodshot and heavy—Darcy is sure that there are no more tears left for Lupin.

A few Order members come and go throughout the day, insisting Darcy be away from them while they speak. It makes her feel like a child, dismissed from the kitchen while the adults speak. Only Emily and Tonks linger, and before Professor McGonagall leaves, she tells Darcy (in front of the entire household) that Professor Snape will be along to fetch her at nine o’clock sharp to escort her back to Hogwarts. Darcy only blushes, gives a muttered “thanks”, and tries to ignore the awkward eyes upon her.

“He hasn’t left the drawing room all day,” Darcy tells Emily and Tonks later that afternoon, as the sun begins to set and Grimmauld Place empties once more. The dull clunking of Moody’s wooden leg is no longer audible from downstairs, so she assumes he’s left, as well. “He’s going to drown himself in alcohol.”

“Hasn’t anyone even _tried_ to check on him?” Emily asks, sounding anxious. This catches Darcy’s attention—the idea that Emily might be worried about Lupin is something unheard of. “That _Daily Prophet_ article was horrible. I know who wrote it—they said no one from the Ministry would even comment on it.”

“Sirius tried, but no luck,” Darcy sighs. “I’m sure Gemma will be able to talk some sense into him, but I don’t know that she’ll be back before Snape comes to get me.” She picks distractedly at some fuzz on her sweater, blushing slightly.

There’s a few seconds of silence, and then Tonks breaks it. “Maybe I should…maybe I’ll go check on him, just to make sure he’s…you know, still alive.”

Tonks leaves the kitchen slowly, warily, as if she knows it’s causing Darcy physical pain. She hears Tonks knock at the drawing room door, the clicking of a lock, and then the door shuts behind her. From across the table, Emily’s watching Darcy very intently, looking very serious. “We’re going to go listen, aren’t we?”

Without another word, both Darcy and Emily scramble from the kitchen table, racing to the drawing room door. They put their ears to the door, facing each other, listening hard. There’s soft, crackling music coming from inside, but quiet enough where Darcy can still hear their voices.

“Remus…” comes Tonks’ gentle voice. “Put the bottle down. Come hang out with us for a little while.”

Lupin doesn’t answer immediately, heaving a great sigh. “You don’t have to commiserate with me, Tonks.” He sounds drunk, his words slowed and slurred, but his head seems clear enough.

As her name rolls off his tongue, Darcy’s stomach churns. Her own name sounds so pretty coming from Lupin’s lips, and she wishes it was the only name he’d ever speak again.

“That Umbridge woman is foul,” Tonks continues, trying to sound chipper, but sympathetic. “She only put out the idea to frighten Darcy, you know that. Emily’s right—it will never pass.”

Darcy frowns. _It’s my fault._

“It’s not Darcy’s fault,” Lupin sighs again, and his word comfort her slightly. She wants to kiss him over and over again. “Do you think these are new ideas? Do you think these aren’t things that have been proposed before?”

Tonks is quiet. Darcy and Emily press their ears harder against the door.

“That’s all the Ministry has ever seen people like me as,” he says. “Beasts— _monsters_. That’s all I am to them, and all I ever will be.”

“No,” Tonks says firmly. “You’re not a monster to us.” And then, as if it’s an afterthought—“Not to me.”

Darcy’s heart begins to race. “Please, Tonks,” Lupin replies. “Leave me. I’ve a lot on my mind.”

“Put down the bottle, take a shower, clean yourself up.” Tonks claps her hands together, sounding much more her usual self. “I’m taking you out tonight. There’s a good Muggle place Emily takes me to sometimes just by the Ministry’s visitor entrance.”

“Do you think I want to be anywhere near the Ministry right now?”

Tonks hesitates. “Well…we can go anywhere you want, then.”

“Tonks,” he says again. “Please, leave me.”

“Remus, tell me what’s on your mind…it’ll be good to talk about—”

“What are you two doing?”

Darcy and Emily jump, falling backwards. Sirius is coming down the stairs, his brow furrowed as he looks curiously at them. “Nothing,” Emily answers quickly, her cheeks slightly pink. “Nothing—we’re not doing anything.”

“It’s not polite to listen in on private conversations, you know,” Sirius whispers, making his way over to them and putting his ear to the door anyway. Darcy and Emily look at each other before resuming their positions, ears to the door again.

“...flattered, but—”

“But what?” Tonks lowers her voice. “It’ll be fun.”

“I’m not—I’m not looking for anything—”

“One night, and that’s all. If you decide I’m as awful as you think, then we won’t have to do it ever again.”

“I don’t think you’re awful, Tonks—you’re…very sweet, truly,” Lupin says, sounding awkward and uncomfortable. “I just—”

“You’re still in love with Darcy, is that it?”

There’s a long pause; Darcy can feel Emily and Sirius staring at her, and she almost pulls away, not wanting to hear the answer—afraid of hearing the answer. “Darcy and I—” Lupin hesitates again. “Darcy has been a wonderful friend to me since I taught at Hogwarts, a far better friend to me than I deserve, and kind to me in ways I had never expected. And…yes, I still think of her often.”

Darcy pulls away from the door at this, not wanting to hear anymore. Sirius and Emily stand up straight, watching her. Without a word, Darcy makes her way back to her bedroom.

* * *

Lupin doesn’t take Tonks’s advice. He keeps to himself the rest of the day, long after Emily and Tonks decide to go home. Though he does leave the drawing room—which is a start—only to lock himself back in his bedroom.

Darcy checks her watch. 8:00. She knows that Gemma won’t be returning to Grimmauld Place tonight, likely going home to her own bed and her own parents. She paces restlessly in her own bedroom, her bag packed, ready to return to Hogwarts in an hour. But she doesn’t want to return to Hogwarts. What she’d heard Lupin say about her makes her heart thunder in her chest, makes her dizzy, makes her palms sweat and her stomach knot. And knowing what Gemma had said too makes her nearly giddy—he wants to be with her, he doesn’t want her to be with Oliver.

_I can have a no strings attached relationship_ , she tells herself. _Oliver and I aren’t that serious_. She promises herself that she’ll have a serious conversation with Oliver about where he imagines the two of them in the future—even just the near future—but in the meantime, doesn’t want to leave Grimmauld Place without saying a proper goodbye to Lupin. _I’m not too emotional to have a relationship like that. Maybe that’s all I need—maybe all I need is to be fucked_.

Checking her watch again, Darcy slips out of her bedroom, walking on tiptoe down the hallway to the door of Lupin’s room. She raises a hand to knock, hesitating, and then finding the courage to do it softly. It’s a few seconds before the door opens.

Darcy curses silently. Lupin looks as if he’s been sleeping—shirtless and in long pants, Darcy fights hard to keep looking him in the face. The lights are all out inside the room, and the bed is disheveled behind him. “I’m leaving in a little bit,” she whispers, as if someone’s listening in. “I wanted to—make sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine,” he tells her, breath smelling strongly of alcohol. “Good night.” Lupin goes to close the door, offering her nothing more than a small smile, but Darcy holds her hand out to stop it. “Something on your mind?”

Darcy’s courage begins to fail, and she’s horribly ashamed of herself. She knows that sleeping with him—if he’d even want to in the first place—will only make her feel worse in the long run, but she wants it so _badly_. All she wants is to feel his hands on her body, his lips against her skin. “Yes,” she says finally, pushing her way past Lupin and into the bedroom. Warily, he closes the door, locking them in the darkness. The light of the moon lightens his face as he turns to look at her. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You can tell me, Remus.” Darcy reaches out for his hand, smiling when he doesn’t flinch away.

“Not tonight, Darcy,” Lupin answers, a frown crossing his face. “Is there something you need? Are everything all right?”

Darcy doesn’t want to reveal she had been listening to his and Tonks’s conversation, and she feels a better idea would have been to rehearse her own conversation in her bedroom before coming here. Lupin watches her expectantly, not looking particularly annoyed or irritable, but tired. “It’s just that—” Darcy licks her lips. “I’m very lonely, and I thought—after Friday night—I mean—”

Lupin looks abashed, moving out of the moonlight to hide his face from her. “That shouldn’t have happened. I’m so sorry, Darcy.”

“No, you don’t have to apologize,” she says quickly, breathlessly. “I’m the one should be sorry—I made a fool of myself and I—I…”

“Yes?”

“I thought—well, I know you’re lonely too, and—I thought maybe—you know, you take care of me and I’ll—I’ll take care of you.”

Lupin sits on the bed, considering her. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” he says. Darcy’s thankful he can’t see her flush a deep crimson in the darkness. Her heart sinks into her stomach, and thinking that there’s no way it could possibly be going any worse, Lupin asks, “What about Oliver?”

“Don’t worry about Oliver,” Darcy retorts, a little too harshly. Lupin stands, moving closer to her. Flustered, Darcy looks away as his body is thrown again into the moonlight. “Can you—at least put a shirt on or _something_?”

“Darcy,” he chuckles, and it makes her feel a little better to hear him laugh. “You’re a very sweet girl and I care about you very much. I would not ask you to do this.”

“But you don’t have to ask,” Darcy breathes as he slowly closes the gap between them. She can nearly feel the heat radiating off his body, willing herself not to reach out and touch him. “I’m offering.”

Lupin inhales sharply. “Darcy, I—I can’t do that to you. I would hate to ruin things between us. You mean a great deal to me, and I feel it would be…disrespectful of me to use you in that way.”

Humiliated, Darcy wants nothing more than to run from the room. Lupin’s hand gropes in the darkness, finding her cheek. Slowly, he leans in and presses a chaste kiss to her forehead, sighing. “I’m sorry about what I did,” she whispers, wanting to cry. “I’m sorry about what I pushed Umbridge to do.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t blame you.” Smiling weakly, Lupin lowers his hand from her face. “You don’t have to apologize to me. Don’t you worry about that, all right?”

“Remus, I—”

“Enough about that, love,” Lupin frowns. “Severus will be here soon. You should go pack. I don’t know that I’ll see you next weekend, but I’ll be here the following one. Goodnight, Darcy.”

A little while later at nine o’clock sharp, still feeling incredibly embarrassed, Darcy makes her way down the stairs with her bag slung over her shoulder, eyes swollen from crying. After a warm hug and a swift kiss on the cheek from Sirius, Darcy follows Professor Snape out onto the front step of Grimmauld Place.

“Are you all right?” Snape asks, his tone curt and professional, holding out his hand for her.

“I’m fine,” she answers softly, taking his hand and feeling her feet leave the ground. 


	30. Chapter 30

“Open it.”

“Open yours.”

Darcy wets her lips, inhaling deeply. “At the same time?”

Professor Snape nods, and Darcy looks back down at the sickeningly pink envelope in her hands. Holding it like a Howler, Darcy carefully opens it, pulling out the parchment within while Snape does the same. With shaky hands, Darcy holds it level, scanning the parchment, reading the notes Umbridge had made in small, loopy handwriting.

_Currently only teaching first years. Teaching material advanced for students._

Darcy frowns. Snape had been the one to assign her the material—it was _he_ who had written her lesson plans. And as far as she knows, her first years had been doing quite well. Their homework grades have been good, their essays knowledgeable, their test scores higher than some of Snape’s other classes. None of this is mentioned, of course—there’s not a single positive thing on the parchment, not a single compliment or a single remark that sheds any form of positive light on Darcy. It’s as if she’d been a qualified disaster, which she knows isn’t true, or else Snape would have definitely let her know.

_Morally questionable choices and actions brought to High Inquisitor’s attention, including smuggling a werewolf onto school grounds while children present. Proven to have no regard for student safety. Lacks character and respect for authority figures._

Darcy frowns harder, tears welling in her eyes as she continues to read through the notes, seeing the word at the very bottom of the parchment that makes her stomach feel as if she’s just swallowed live snakes. They twist and contract inside of her stomach, making her half ready to vomit.

_Inspection results: PROBATION. Will continue to be monitored closely. Failure to improve will result in termination._

She looks up at Snape, eyes shining with tears. At the sight of her, Snape furrows his brow, snatching the parchment out of Darcy’s hands and reading it quickly. He doesn’t look very surprised, but does look exasperated nonetheless. “Don’t cry,” he urges her, scrunching his nose. “ _Must_ you cry?”

“I’m _not_ crying!” Darcy hisses. She stands from her place on the sofa, hurrying over to her liquor cabinet and pulling out a bottle of firewhiskey. She pours herself a drink, wiping her tears away before Snape is able to see them fall.

“Darcy, this has nothing to do with your competence or you capabilities,” Snape says after a moment, getting to his feet and tossing both of their inspection results into the crackling fire, apathetic. “It has everything to do with Umbridge being intimidated and frightened by the reason you’re here.”

Hearing words of comfort from Snape is still unfamiliar and foreign and somehow seems very insincere, but Darcy holds her tongue and doesn’t snap back with a quick retort. She traces the lip of her glass with her index finger, looking down at the countertop, her cheeks bright pink. Still humiliated from the conversation she’d had with Lupin only last night, her inspection results don’t make her feel any better. Snape looks over his shoulder at her once, and Darcy is sure that he sees her crying, but he doesn’t say anything. But Darcy feels very ashamed of herself for being placed on probation, even if it’s not entirely her fault, and she suddenly feel very lonely and childlike in her shame and sadness. She desperately hopes no one finds out about this, not even Harry or Gemma (not that Darcy especially wants to parade this knowledge about, let alone bring it back with her to Grimmauld Place).

“Words will be had with the Headmaster,” Snape says again, watching the pink parchment catch fire and curl and burn in the flames. “Since you are not a formal, proper teacher, she has no right to both inspect you or place you on probation.”

“No, please—” Darcy sputters, spilling some drink down the front of her shirt. Snape turns to face her, his eyebrow raised. “Please, I don’t want Professor Dumbledore in any trouble because of me.”

Snape considers her, deciding not to answer. He sighs, moving around the sofa and towards the door. Before leaving, he screws the cap back on Darcy’s bottle of firewhiskey, almost as if it’s second nature, without even thinking. With a wave of his wand, the bottle returns to the liquor cabinet. Darcy avoids looking Snape in the eyes, afraid to see his thin lips curled into a sneer at the sight of tears.

“You promised that I’d remain here,” she rasps, wiping at her face again, “with you.” Darcy lifts her eyes, looking into his cold, black ones. “You _promised_.”

Snape raises his eyebrows, bored. “I did,” he answers. “And you _will_ remain here, with me. You have done as I’ve asked and said what you’ve been told to say—I will not allow her to rid this school of you so easily.”

They look at each other for a long time across the countertop. Darcy wraps her arms around herself protectively. “I don’t want her to sack me.”

Looking mildly uncomfortable (still a sight that makes Darcy want to smile), Snape asks, “Perhaps I…misunderstood, but I thought you didn’t want to be here? Why are you so afraid of being sacked now?”

This makes Darcy laugh weakly. “You’re right,” she says. “I’d rather be with Sirius than here—a hundred times over.” Darcy doesn’t fail to notice a muscle jump in his cheek at this admission. She has the decency to pretend not to have noticed. “If I’m sacked, I might be able to get married one day, I could have a real family, but…who would take care of Harry if I wasn’t here? I’m supposed to leave him to be with Umbridge while I’m at home playing the part of my aunt? The perfect little housewife?”

Snape blinks, not looking away from her, looking as if she’s not making any sense. For a moment, Darcy thinks he’s attempting to read her mind again if only to understand, looking at her so intently that it makes her feel very small next to him. “You would give that up for—” He hesitates, narrowing his eyes, as if saying Harry’s name will cause him physical pain. “—your brother?”

Darcy thinks maybe, if the situation and circumstances were different, she’d ask him to leave. But there is nothing cold about his question, nothing accusing or harsh or sneering. _He’s curious,_ she realizes. _He doesn’t understand what it’s like to have someone you love so much—he doesn’t understand what it’s like to feel responsible for someone because you love them_. She thinks it’s sad, and she wonders if Snape is as lonely as she sometimes is. Darcy shifts, tilting her head slightly. “Would you like a drink, Professor?”

Snape looks slightly taken aback. She watches him glance very quickly over his shoulder, as if she’d asked someone else. His jaw clenches, and instead of waiting for an answer, Darcy digs around in her liquor cabinet to produce a bottle of wine, reusing her empty glass and pouring a glass full for Snape, as well. She pushes the glass closer to him, drinking from her own.

“ _Don’t_ interrupt me,” Darcy begins again, flashing him a hard look over her glass. “Or I won’t tell you what I’m going to say.”

Snape raises his eyebrows, taking a very small sip of the wine, as if she’s poisoned it.

Darcy takes a moment to collect her thoughts, drinking to give herself some time. It’s odd, preparing to tell Professor Snape something very personal, very intimate—something she’d never imagined herself doing. “After mum and dad died, Aunt Petunia and Vernon wanted nothing to do with us,” she whispers, glad tears don’t come. “I was of an age where I could do most everything for Harry, so I did, because they didn’t want to.” Darcy pours more wine in her glass. “I became a mother that night, at five-years-old. I—”

“What is Darcy Potter’s favorite drink?”

“ _Ugh_ , it’s firewhiskey, isn’t it?”

Darcy and Snape both tense as the portrait hole swings open to reveal Hermione. She steps through and freezes at the sight of Darcy and Snape sharing drinks, looking very awkward. “Hermione,” Darcy croaks, blushing furiously. “What are you doing here?”

Hermione’s cheeks turn bright pink, and Snape clears his throat. “I should go,” he murmurs, avoiding looking directly at a bewildered Hermione as he brushes past her and out the door.

“Sorry,” Hermione gasps, visibly flustered. “I didn’t realize—”

“It’s fine,” Darcy says, smiling weakly. “You probably stopped me from doing something stupid, anyway.”

Raising an eyebrow, Hermione’s cheeks turn pinker and she looks horrified.

Darcy flushes, scowling. “Nothing like _that_!”

* * *

Despite being on probation (and making sure to keep that information all to herself), Darcy doesn’t find Umbridge terribly unbearable—or more so than usual. The first years are eager to learn, not at all hesitant in asking questions, quick to laugh when Darcy makes a joke, and they blush whenever she showers them with compliments. While it seems to infuriate Umbridge, who’s unable to find much to criticize, she instead decides to question Darcy about her whereabouts over the weekend and where her loyalties truly lie. But Darcy much prefers bruised knuckles to being sacked, and Snape is always kind about it afterwards, making sure he has some potion on hand to ease the pain and swelling. Umbridge never brings up her proposed legislation, but Darcy can tell by her especially tight-lipped smile that Umbridge is _waiting_ for a reaction. Umbridge expects her to say something about it. But Darcy will not indulge her, will not speak out of turn, will not give Umbridge a reason for her to be sacked.

What with classes, Quidditch practices to attend for moral support, and grading papers and essays and quizzes, Darcy rarely finds time for herself. Someone’s in her room nearly all the time, whether it be Snape for a quick chat (who is somehow always able to conjure up a reason to speak with her, even just for a little bit), Hermione to gossip freely away from the boys, Ron to ask for help with Potions homework, or Harry to talk idly of all kinds of things, and it becomes exasperating. She’s exhausted Thursday night when she trudges down to the Three Broomsticks to meet Oliver.

She agrees to have dinner in the common room tonight, not wanting to argue and waste her breath. After scanning the tables for a familiar face and seeing none, Darcy leads Oliver back to a small table crammed in a corner, trying to ignore the knowledge that someone is likely watching her. Once Darcy gets a few drinks in her, conversation comes more easily and naturally, and Darcy is so glad to be out of the castle that her laughter is genuine and welcome and warm. She almost doesn’t recognize the sound of her own laugh, but it makes Oliver smile. Oliver is funny and clever, she thinks, but they don’t share very much in common, which is a shame. After they finish eating and exhaust conversation, Darcy frowns, feeling quite sad because she _does_ like Oliver.

Darcy and Lupin had always been able to converse for long periods of time, about everything and nothing. She’d always felt able to relate to him, always found Lupin someone very understanding and compassionate and so easy to talk to. It’s not Oliver’s fault, she thinks, but Darcy can’t see herself curled up at his side while revealing the secrets of her youth, her most personal and private memories. She can’t picture Oliver comforting her after a nightmare in the dead of the night, or reaching out just to touch her in the mornings. _He’s innocent_ , she tells herself, sighing heavily. _He could never understand. Who would ever be able to understand?_

It’s only after their sixth date does something change, and it takes her by surprise. They have dinner in the openness of the common room, at a table beside the roaring fire that makes Oliver’s forehead glisten slightly with sweat. As Darcy is halfway through her meal, Oliver sets his silverware down and smiles weakly at her from across the table.

“Quidditch is starting up again soon,” he explains, looking far too excited about it. “I won’t be able to be here often. We travel a lot, you know—for Quidditch.”

Tired, her heart not really in it, she nods, smiling weakly.

“Darcy, you don’t tell me anything.” Oliver’s tone is sad, disappointed. Darcy looks up at him over her plate, blushing, feeling as if a spotlight is shining down on her. “I’ve known you for near half my life, and I feel like I don’t know anything about you.”

“If you knew everything about me, you wouldn’t like me anymore,” Darcy counters, not unkindly. “Besides, I’m not as interesting as you think.”

“Right,” Oliver sighs, leaning back in his chair. “It’s like pulling hair with you.”

“Pulling hair?”

“Is that not the expression?”

“It’s pulling teeth,” Darcy replies, laughing weakly and shaking her head. “And I’m sorry—I’m just not comfortable talking about myself right now.”

“You still love him, is that it?”

Darcy tenses, furrowing her brow, her throat very dry. “No,” she lies. “No, I don’t. It’s over between us, and he doesn’t want me. Don’t be ridiculous.” She returns to her food, but Oliver seems a little too understanding by the way he looks at her.

“Come on, Darcy,” Oliver says, running a hand through his short brown hair. “I know you better than you think.” There’s a heavy pause in which Darcy stuffs her mouth full of food to keep from answering. “Look, the gala was such a great time, and I’m so glad we went together, but I’ve got to focus on Quidditch now. If I want to be Keeper for Puddlemere and not just, you know…the _reserve_ Keeper, then I have to train harder than anyone. Ten times harder than we trained here at Hogwarts—maybe even harder than that. I won’t have a lot of time for other activities, you know. Not until our next break, anyway, but that’s not until the spring, I think.”

Darcy hesitates, lowering her fork and swallowing the wad of food in her mouth. She opens her mouth to speak, closes it, and then opens it again. “So, what are you saying?” she asks quietly, scoffing. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“Were you ever my girlfriend?” Oliver asks with a frown.

Heart racing, feeling more humiliated than she’s ever felt in her life, Darcy shakes her head. “You’re breaking up with me because I won’t tell you my secrets?” When Oliver doesn’t answer, Darcy stands up quickly, leaving the Three Broomsticks without another word and almost running back up to the castle.

It’s that night, drunk and embarrassed, that Darcy finds herself thinking on Snape’s advice to her. _Do I really need a boyfriend now? Do I really need someone at my side with everything that’s happening_? The truth is, Darcy doesn’t really need a man in her life, but damn it does she _want_ one. The feelings Lupin had made her feel changed her—never before had someone been so invested in her wellbeing, in her growth, in a relationship with her. Lupin had taught her of the comfort a few well-placed kisses could bring, the reassurance that had come with his fingers twined with hers, the utterly content feeling that had come with his boyish, toothy smile.

She can’t remember ever craving someone so badly before. Darcy had never known real love before Lupin, and that feeling had felt so good, it’s all she wants for the rest of her life. Who has ever taken such good care of her before? Who, besides Lupin, has ever treated her so lovingly before? He had kissed and touched her as if she was something _good_ in this world. And how had Darcy repaid him for such kindness? She’d let Gavin kiss her and touch her, almost let him bury his face in her. Granted, she’d stopped it before it went that far, but she hadn’t stopped Oliver. She’d let Oliver fuck her out of spite—to feel validated.

Kept busy, Darcy doesn’t feel so lonely—so stagnant. Yet she had thought she’d cried all of her tears for Lupin, which doesn’t seem to be the case. Some nights are better than others, but most nights end with Darcy passing out drunk in her bed (something that Snape seems to know whenever she drags herself to classes in the morning). Sometimes Max keeps her company at night, rubbing his feathers all over her face, nipping at her ears and fingers affectionately.

But she cannot shake Lupin from her dreams. Obscene and embarrassing dreams most nights—hips moving rhythmically against each other’s, fingers in her mouth, his head thrown back to expose his throat to Darcy, a sign of submission, his eyes closed. Darcy had always enjoyed having such power over him, the way each one of her soft kisses against his throat would cause him to let out an involuntarily groan, the sound vibrating against her lips. Whenever she wakes from her sleep after one of these dreams, Darcy can’t help but to think of other women—of _Tonks_ —touching him in the places he likes best, lips touching each scar on his body and making him writhe, their kisses making him smile and sigh.

_No other woman could ever love him as much as I do_ , Darcy always tells herself through the tears. _No other woman could ever need him as much as I do_.

Though Darcy thinks—sometimes—that she misses the innocent touches more than anything. The tip of his nose brushing softly against hers, warm hands on the sides of her face while he kisses her deeply, smiles against the crook of her neck, the tips of his fingers tracing patterns on her bare stomach. Those had been the times where Darcy found herself head over heels in love with him, feeling no more than sixteen—nervous and inexperienced and so _young_ next to him.

And yet, despite the aching in the very depths of Darcy’s broken heart, Lupin shows no animosity towards her when she does visit Grimmauld Place. He doesn’t bring up the humiliating scene that one Sunday night, and is very kind and warm towards her. It almost reminds her of his early teaching days—the overt politeness, the easy smiles, always looking so damn cool, making her weak in the knees. She thinks it has much to do with the fact that Umbridge’s legislation had been rejected almost immediately, and Darcy begins to notice Sirius does very much bring out the best in Lupin. She can almost picture them as kids hardly older than her, and can see very clearly why girls might have been so taken with them.

One weekend, Darcy’s heart flutters madly when Lupin politely declines Tonks’s offer to go out for lunch without batting an eyelash. Only a few moments afterwards, Gemma teases Lupin about how long his hair is getting, to which Lupin lowers the paper, looks directly at Darcy, and asks her to cut his hair. Blushing furiously, Lupin gives Darcy a friendly grin.

“I like the way that you do it,” he pleads, giving her a look that makes her melt. “Please, Darcy.”

She has a very hard time saying no to him.

And at least on weekends, Darcy doesn’t have to sleep alone. While she and Gemma tend to sprawl all over the large bed, often waking with someone’s head giving the other a dead arm, or a leg thrown over someone’s hip, Darcy enjoys the intimacy. Lupin teases them often—in good fun—for always snuggling close or cuddling on the sofa, and Darcy feels that he always looks at her for a little too long sometimes when he says these things, holds her gaze a few seconds longer than normal, just like his lingering touches. A hand on her shoulder that burns hot for a few seconds before it slowly releases her, fingers grazing the small of her back when he squeezes past her in a hallway.

One Sunday, as Darcy packs her bag to return to Hogwarts, with Gemma, Emily, and Tonks keeping busy in her bedroom, Lupin walks by the open door towards the stairs. Reading atop the bed, still wearing her green St Mungo’s robes, Gemma calls out for him, and a moment later, Lupin’s head appears in the threshold. “What?”

Without looking away from her book, Gemma says, “I’ve got forty minutes before I have to go back to St Mungo’s. Think we’ll be able to do dinner that quick? It’s on me.”

Lupin considers her for a second. “I think so,” he shrugs. “I’ll meet you downstairs.” And just like that, he walks back to his room to get ready.

“How did you do that?” Tonks asks Gemma right away, sounding slightly affronted. “I’ve been asking him to have lunch with me for weeks, and he won’t agree.”

Darcy’s stomach churns, but Gemma only gets to her feet, smiling at Darcy. “He’s my best friend,” she chuckles, wrapping Darcy in a bone-crushing hug. “See you next weekend?”

She nods, smiling back, watching Gemma make her way down the stairs. Lupin follows shortly after, waving goodbye to Darcy as he passes her bedroom again.

“That doesn’t bother you?” Emily says warily, narrowing her eyes at Darcy. “How quickly he agrees to have dinner with her?”

“No,” Darcy answers truthfully, finishing her packing and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Besides, Gemma follows the girl code. And the three of us were quite close all last year—not that you’d know.”

Emily decides to ignore this jibe.

And between all of this, Darcy’s attended four other D.A. meetings, relishing each and every one. A few times, Harry had come to Darcy before a meeting to practice a few spells in order to make sure he’s able to do them properly. Darcy gives him a few suggestions as to what to teach, and while she knows Harry’s only doing it to make her feel involved, it makes her happy. Hermione had even shown Darcy her Galleon idea early, before revealing it to the other students.

“I’ve done a Protean Charm,” Hermione had explained, holding out one fake Galleon and one fake Knut for Darcy. “Harry will use the numbers to set the date of the next meeting, and it will burn in your pocket when it changes—” She gave Darcy the Galleon and held up the Knut. “This is something I did just for the four of us. I thought that…since you’re not here on weekends, and since all forms of communication are being watched…well, this is how we can let you know if there’s trouble. If the Knut burns hot, you’ll know to come back to Hogwarts.”

Darcy had grinned. “I didn’t know you could do a Protean Charm, Hermione,” she said, pocketing the coins. “You really are the cleverest witch of your age, aren’t you?”

Hermione flushed with pleasure. “I asked Lupin to help me with it last year when we were helping Harry prepare for the third task,” she’d admitted sheepishly. “I liked spending time with you. With you, Lupin, and Gemma.”

Darcy still doesn’t know why this confession continues to hurt her so much.

“Don’t tell Gemma, but…” Hermione had tucked her bushy hair behind her ears, looking at her feet. “She’s pretty cool.”

Darcy had only laughed softly. “Yeah. She is.”

As the first Quidditch match of the season approaches and there’s something else to look forward to, Darcy remembers something she’s been meaning to ask Hermione for weeks, so she’s quite glad when Hermione herself wanders into her room one evening. Having taken dinner alone, Darcy’s mouth is full of food when Hermione enters. Slightly drunk, Darcy seats herself on the sofa, patting the seat beside her.

“Hermione, do you still have a copy of S.P.E.W.’s manifesto?”

Hermione’s face brightens, and she nods eagerly, sitting up straighter on the sofa. “Yes, of course—but why?”

“Do you think I could just borrow it? To look it over?”

Eyes narrowing in suspicion, Hermione asks, “Why?”

Sighing heavily, the words tumble out of Darcy before she can think. But it feels good to tell someone who isn’t Emily or Gemma. She had felt quite guilty admitting to Emily she hadn’t done anything about her article. “I’m writing an opinion piece, and I don’t really know where to begin honestly,” Darcy says, rubbing the back of her neck and shrugging.

“An opinion piece on house-elves? But that will be wonderful! Who’s publishing it?”

“Er, well—no, not exactly,” Darcy laughs again. “It’s an opinion piece on…well…werewolves.”

Hermione’s quiet for a moment, her eyebrows knitting together. She holds her hands in her lap, pursing her lips, apparently deep in thought. And then she softens. “I saw the legislation Umbridge tries to pass a few weeks ago. It was evil—pure evil.” Offering Darcy a small smile, Hermione flattens her skirt. “I think it’s a wonderful idea. I’ll bring the manifesto tomorrow after classes, and I may have some books that could help with some research.”

“Thanks.”

Tentatively, Hermione continues carefully. “How did your inspection go?”

Darcy swallows hard, clearing her throat. “Fine, it went fine.” She picks at the sofa cushion, Hermione’s eyes boring a hole in the top of her head. Maybe it’s the alcohol that makes her say it. “I’m on probation, Hermione.”

Hermione’s hands jump to her mouth. “ _No_! She didn’t!” Lowering her hands back to her lap, Hermione’s expression is of clear disapproval. “She only did it to anger you.”

“Professor Snape says the same,” Darcy frowns. “He says she did it to get a rise out of me, that she wants me to argue it.”

“But you haven’t, have you?”

Darcy gives Hermione a sideways look, considering her. “No, I haven’t. I’ve been keeping my mouth shut like a good little girl.”

It’s clear this doesn’t sit well with Hermione. “You sound like Sirius,” she says gently. “Has he been filling your head with ideas? Don’t you think you’re being a bit…reckless?”

“ _Reckless_?” Darcy snaps, getting abruptly to her feet and making a desperate swipe for her glass of wine. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Hermione’s voice seems to quaver. “I only meant that you’re already on probation, and Harry, Ron, and I would _hate_ to see you sacked! If Umbridge finds out you’re a part of the D.A., and if she finds out where you go during the weekends, and—if you write that article, she may decide to retaliate! What if they send you to Azkaban, Darcy?” And then, in a much shriller voice, “And you should _really_ ease up on the drinking!”

“So you expect me to do _nothing_?” Darcy hisses, finishing her glass and holding her head in her hands for a moment. Her sudden anger has made the drink affect her much differently, and she pours another glass full of wine. “Do you not understand what I gave up to come back here? I walked away from _everything_ I have ever wanted, to come back here—and to what? Lay down and take orders? No one tells me _anything_ even though I’m of age, they tell me constantly to shut my mouth and not speak until spoken to. If I must be here, I will do _something_.” Darcy sighs, bile rising in her throat. She fights it back, her stomach churning. “And damn the consequences.”

Hermione is quiet, breathing heavily, her soft brown eyes wide in surprise. When she moves her head just slightly, the firelight makes them look almost gold, reminding Darcy so forcibly of Lupin that she has to look away.

“I was so _stupid_ ,” Darcy murmurs, running a hand through her hair. “Everything was fine until he came around. I was seventeen and _so_ in love with him, and he has only made everything more difficult.”

“Darcy,” Hermione breathes. “He loves you.”

“It’s doesn’t matter,” Darcy answers, holding her face in her hands again, tears building painfully in her eyes. “It’s not enough.”

It seems Hermione has nothing else to add.

“Get out, Hermione,” Darcy says, but not harshly. It’s more a desperate plea, breathy and shaky. “Leave me to my misery.”


	31. Chapter 31

“I…heard about you and Oliver. I’m sorry.”

“Come to have a good gloat, then?” Darcy frowns, clutching her glass tighter. Lupin’s eyes flick from her face to the bottle of brandy and back again. “Famous, beautiful Darcy Potter can’t even keep a boyfriend. Not even a boyfriend who has wanted to fuck her for years. Sound about right?”

Lupin flinches very slightly; whether it’s because of her words or the acid dripping from them, Darcy isn’t sure. She sighs and softens, and Lupin takes a seat in the chair opposite her at the kitchen table. “I’m not here to gloat,” he says kindly. “I thought you might want some company. Someone to sympathize.”

“If I wanted someone to sympathize with me after being dumped, you’d be the _last_ person I’d ask for company.”

He doesn’t even bat an eye at these words, despite the venom still in them. In fact, he looks almost unsurprised that Darcy would say something like this. “You’re being rude, Darcy,” Lupin says coolly, rapping his knuckles gently on the tabletop. “I’ve come here to ask if there’s anything I can do for you, but if you’d rather be alone and drink yourself half to death, then so be it.”

“What do you care anyway?” Darcy growls, letting her anger take over so she doesn’t start crying in front of him. “As if you hadn’t locked yourself away with a bottle a few weeks ago?”

A muscle jumps in his cheek, but he leans forward and lowers his voice. “I had a curious letter the other day, from a person I had not at all expected to write me,” he tells her, and Darcy’s eyebrows knit together, a crease appearing in front of them. “It seems Hermione wrote to Emily, but the letter was not meant for Emily.”

Darcy scoffs, leaning back in her seat and finishing her glass of brandy. “Hermione wrote _you_ a letter?”

“Of course she did,” Lupin answers. “Any decent friend would have in her situation.”

“Go on, then,” Darcy hisses. “What did Hermione have to say, then?”

“I think the exact wording was something along the lines of— _I’m afraid she’s going to drink herself to death_.” Lupin leans back in his seat, as well, his face stony. His hair has grown back some— _so damn fast_ , she thinks, _just like always_ —and is streaked with more gray. “Like I said, a curious letter.”

“A drink a day won’t kill me.”

“A drink a day? That’s certainly not what Hermione claims. Is she lying to me, Darcy? Has she written me a false letter?” Lupin raises his eyebrows, and his arrogance infuriates Darcy. “I have it upstairs still—if you’d like to read what she’s written?”

“I’m sure you’ve already let the entirety of the Order know, then, that I’m a drunk?” Darcy asks, her mind working slower than usual after all the brandy she’s had. Why would Hermione write to Lupin? If Hermione was going to write to anyone, why wouldn’t she have written Gemma? Did Hermione send him that letter before or after Darcy had exploded on her about Lupin?

“Gemma? Yes,” Lupin says again, almost as if reading her mind. “The entirety of the Order? No. What a disrespectful thing that would have been to do, when you’re clearly hurting.”

“I’m not hurting,” Darcy growls, the knowledge of him having shared the letter with Gemma even more maddening. “You don’t know anything about what happens at Hogwarts, so don’t pretend. You would have shown Gemma that letter, wouldn’t you? Nothing you don’t share, I suppose.”

“Is that what you think?”

Darcy stands her ground, looking back into his face with determination. “I can’t even be in the same room as Snape before accusations are hurled at me, but you and Gemma can come and go as you please wherever you like?”

Lupin traces his teeth with his tongue. The usual symptoms of his transformation only a few nights prior seem to have vanished (probably thanks to Gemma’s potion), but Darcy can see it in the snarl that crosses his face, the faint glint in his eye. “You’re going to make this about us?” When Darcy doesn’t answer, he continues recklessly. “I care for Gemma a great deal, Darcy, no matter how incredibly infuriating she may be at times. She has created something that has tremendously increased my quality of living—she has not refused to see what I truly am, but accepts it. And I have never—and _would_ never, see her as more than she is to me now: my friend. I am not interested in pursuing anything with Gemma. And I’m sure, as your best friend, she would say the same about me.”

Darcy feels humiliated, but doesn’t look away from him.

Lupin takes advantage of the silence. “It’s funny you mention Severus, actually,” he continues. “You see, Darcy—despite your stubborn and vehement denials that Severus is fond of you—Severus has indeed cared enough about your wellbeing to bring some things to the Order’s attention over the past few weeks.”

At this, she blushes. “And what has Professor Snape said about me?”

Lupin cocks an eyebrow. “I didn’t need Hermione to tell me you’ve been drinking.” He frowns, and with surprising agility (or maybe the brandy has made Darcy’s own reflexes much slower) reaches out to grab her left hand, resting on the table. Lupin’s fingers curling around her own is a comforting feeling that takes Darcy by surprise, but his eyes flash with anger at the sight of the the bruises that litter her fingers and knuckles. Her hands are terribly ugly—her fingers, long and slender, are also colored yellow and tinted green from days old bruises, her ring finger still crooked from all those years ago when Vernon had caned her. “Severus has said you’ve been holding your tongue, but it still happens. Why haven’t you told Dumbledore?”

Darcy rips her hand away from his, cradling it against her chest with her other bruised hand. “What are you going to do about it? Tell Umbridge off? Drag me back here screaming?”

Lupin’s face relaxes, and he gives her a very sad look. “That _is_ the dilemma, isn’t it? We’re all concerned.” Running a hand through his hair, Darcy is surprised he looks so shaken by the sight of her hand. “She’s torturing you, Darcy.”

She extends her fingers, glancing down at them. _Has Snape not told him I’m on probation_? “At least she’s keeping away from my face,” Darcy replies finally. “I don’t look quite as pretty with a black eye.”

“How can you possibly be so casual about this?”

Darcy holds up her empty glass, refilling it with brandy, and taking a long drink and raising her eyebrows. “This is how,” she tells him. “Are you done scolding me now?”

“You know I’m only worried about you.” Lupin flicks his neck to get the hair out of his eyes and Darcy almost melts. She hates herself for it. “Do you have any idea how painful it was to read Hermione’s letter? The girl is fifteen-years-old and afraid you’re going to kill yourself, Darcy. Is that the example you’re going to set for your brother’s friends?”

Darcy laughs mirthlessly; exhaling shortly from her long nose, she pulls out a pack of cigarettes, putting one to her lips and lighting it. “Don’t you have anything better to do than to sit here and strip me down? Do you think I enjoy being humiliated?”

“What is wrong with you?”

_You have taught me what it feels like to be loved, and I need it_. But Darcy only lowers her eyes again to the table. “I’m tired.”

There’s a long silence between them. The tension isn’t at thick, and Lupin rubs his face, scratching at his scruff. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” he says softly—gently. “What happened between you and Oliver?”

“The same thing that happened with Gavin,” Darcy confesses. “The same thing that will happen with every boy I may try to love in the future.”

Lupin furrows his brow, tilting his head.

Darcy smiles very weakly, taking a long pull off her cigarette. “How could _anyone_ ever understand? How could I ever look anyone else in the eyes and tell them what the death of my parents has done to me? How would I explain about Sirius? About the Order and Grimmauld Place?” She runs her fingers through her hair. “I will never be able to have a normal life, will I?”

He looks at her for a long time. “You will,” he says. “One day.”

“Don’t think I don’t know how this could end for me,” Darcy whispers. “I don’t know that Harry understands, but I do. What a miserable life that would be—to die and have known nothing but this. To not even be able to have a normal relationship because my life is built around secrets.”

Darcy puts her cigarette out, pours herself more brandy. It’s not a very good idea, but it’s made her chest warm and she feels a little braver.

“‘But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams, his shadows shouts on a nightmare scream’,” she rasps. “‘His wings are clipped and his feet are tied, so he opens his throat to sing.’”

The corners of Lupin’s mouth twitch. “‘The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still’,” Lupin finishes slowly. “‘And his time is heard on the distant hill, for the caged bird sings of freedom’.” He exhales. “You’ve been reading the book I got you for your birthday.”

“It’s one of my favorites.” Darcy had been drawn to it immediately, for Lupin hadn’t written much about it. There were a few lines he’d underlined in appreciation, but nothing in the margins. She still wonders why, but her head begins to spin. Emboldened by the brandy, feeling she might as well use this opportunity to speak the truth while liquid courage surges through her, Darcy sighs. “I hate that you left me when I needed you most.”

Before Lupin can answer, Darcy finishes her final glass of brandy and gets to her feet. She stumbles around the table, and as she nears the door, Lupin stands. “Are you all right?” She nods and he adds with a chuckle, “You were quite articulate only a few minutes ago, reciting poetry.”

“Shut up,” Darcy snaps, making her way to the staircase.

“Do you…want me to walk you upstairs?”

Darcy, breathless and flushing at the thought of Lupin helping her into bed, is barely able to breathe, “Do you _want_ to walk me upstairs?”

Lupin gives her a very puzzled look, leaving Darcy to slide into bed alone, but she doesn’t fall asleep until her head buzzes from nicotine and a few more drinks of the half-finished bottle of wine hidden under the bed.

Yet that night, while everyone else is fast asleep, nightmares strike Darcy once again. The images are jumbled and vague, but Darcy knows the source of the green light she sees, knows the source of the pain in her legs. The same thing almost every night, the dead faces of those she loves the most. When she wakes, screaming and crying and still drunk, Gemma is barely bothered from beside her. She lights the room and whispers soothing words in Darcy’s ear as she vomits over the side of the bed, shaking and white-faced.

“I’m sorry,” Darcy cries, as Gemma ties her auburn hair back. Her chest rumbles, and she vomits again, feeling a bit more sober and a bit more awake. “I’m sorry—”

“It’s all right, my love,” Gemma whispers as the bedroom door opens slowly.

“Don’t call me that,” Darcy croaks, pleading. She wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand, shuddering at the feeling that overcomes her. She vomits again, nothing but bile. It rips and tears at her throat.

“My little lion,” Gemma says again, placing a very soft and very gentle kiss at the crook of Darcy’s neck. “My brave Gryffindor—lie back down. You’re all right.”

Footsteps approach, and Lupin kneels at the side of the bed, Vanishing the pool of vomit and touching Darcy’s back. Darcy meets his eyes for a split second, but it’s enough—she falls into his chest, tears spilling against his shirt, as his arms hold her close. Gemma’s soft hands rub her back, her shoulders, kissing the exposed nape of her neck before resting her cheek against the curve of Darcy’s spine.

None of them speak while they all lean against each other, waiting for Darcy to settle, and it isn’t until Darcy stops crying that Lupin’s arms slip from around her. He brings the empty bottle of wine with him as he leaves the room without another backwards glance.

“He hates me,” Darcy whispers, her throat sore as she settles back in bed, face soaked with tears.

“No, he doesn’t,” Gemma chuckles. “He just doesn’t want to see you like this.” There's a slight pause; Gemma extinguishes the lights again, settling against the pillow. “Men can be so _stupid_ sometimes. That’s all he is.”

“Remus isn’t stupid.”

“Yes, he is.” Gemma smiles, shaking her head as if remembering better times. “Listen, Darcy—who needs boys? The only thing they’re really good for is their cocks. When they start trying to think with their heads instead of their cock, it never turns out well.”

Darcy frowns, thinking hard. “I don’t think that’s quite true. Remus isn’t that crude.”

“You think Lupin read you poetry by the fire to stimulate your mind?” Gemma laughs, but Darcy doesn’t laugh along with her. “To show you how well-read he is? No, Darcy, he read you poetry by the fire to get in your pants.”

“That’s not true,” Darcy whispers, feeling slightly hurt. At least, she hopes it’s not true. She’s sure Gemma doesn’t really mean it—but it still hurts. “That’s not all he wanted from me.”

“Oh, Darcy,” Gemma sighs. “Men are all the same.”

“You sound like Emily.”

But Darcy’s stomach knots and twists and cramps, and she looks at Gemma’s profile in the dim light. Her jawline is sharp enough to cut glass, Darcy thinks, her straight nose almost perfect in the moonlight that falls upon her. Darcy doesn’t know what makes her do it, but she kisses Gemma softly on the cheek. Her cheek is soft, so different from the coarse hair on Lupin’s face, or the rough stubble on Oliver’s. Gemma doesn’t recoil, or hardly acknowledge Darcy’s lips on her cheek.

“You’re drunk, Darcy,” Gemma murmurs. “And your mouth tastes like vomit, I’m sure.”

“I know,” Darcy says, closing her eyes. “Goodnight.”

* * *

The worst thing about bringing Max to Grimmauld Place that _one_ time was that he’d picked up on Kreacher’s habit of leaving dead mice around for Gemma. So when Darcy opens her bedroom door to find a dead mouse inches from her foot, Max hooting in a very self-satisfied sort of way, she hardly flinches. She’s grown so used to it now that it hardly bothers her. She Vanishes it with a wave of her wand and continues into her room, a drink in one hand and a sandwich in the other.

Her desk is cluttered, a few candles still burning bright. There are several books piled precariously on the corner, stacked four tall. One is open to a chapter on the 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct, and Hermione’s S.P.E.W. manifesto is pushed off to the side. Emily had been able to procure a few old _Daily Prophet_ articles that Umbridge had written over the years concerning, not just werewolves, but of all sorts of what she calls “half-breeds”. Crumpled up parchment, blank parchment, two ink bottles, and a few quills are scattered about the desktop, as well. Darcy’s half-empty pack of cigarettes and a lighter are settled neatly at the very top of the desk, and it’s too tempting an offer for her. She finishes her sandwich and takes a drink before lighting a cigarette.

Holding the cigarette firm between her lips, Darcy puts her drink down and goes through the discarded parchment, reading through her sorry attempts at an introduction—at her pathetic opening sentences. Hermione had told her multiple times it was a bad idea right now—that maybe she should write about something else. She had so unnecessarily reminded Darcy about the response an article like that would produce, and Darcy had remembered the horrible letters she’d received throughout the last year. She thinks of Fenrir Greyback, shuddering.

_How did this happen?_

Twenty-years-old, still at Hogwarts, giving students detentions in the corridors for trying to hex other Quidditch players, taking points from others. To think she’d still be in a classroom with Snape most of the time is a thought she hates. Has life not been cruel enough to her that she must also be stuck at Snape’s side constantly?

But maybe that’s a bit cruel…after all, Snape has been good to her, and despite all that he’s done to her and Lupin and Sirius and Harry, Darcy can’t help but to trust him, to rely upon him, to need him. And though she hates to admit it, even to herself, she knows that Snape cares for her in his own queer way—the gentle way he touches her, whether it be her hands or her arm or her back or the nape of her neck that has become accustomed to his palm; or maybe it’s most obvious in the way his face softens upon seeing her walk into a classroom, or the way that ugly smile of his decides to make an appearance when she murmurs a joke into his ear during meals.

Darcy can’t place the feelings she has for Snape. The knowledge of what is branded on his forearm still makes her slightly wary, but knowing he’s in the Order eases her anxieties about that slightly. She certainly doesn’t love him the way she loves Lupin, and Darcy knows Snape could never take the place of her father—of James.

Her heart begins to ache at the thought of James. What would he think if he knew she was going home every weekend to his two best friends in the world? She doesn’t want to think about it, so she puts her cigarette out and goes to bed.

* * *

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

They’re all wearing them—all the Slytherins, anyway. She had thought it was a coincidence at first, when she saw a few third years huddled together showing them off. But now she can see they’re all wearing them, and whatever they are, Darcy knows it can’t be good.

It’s a cold November morning the day of the first Quidditch match of the season, Gryffindor versus Slytherin. As excited as Darcy had been to watch the match, Darcy thinks she’d much rather be curled up in front of the fire at Grimmauld Place, her head in Gemma’s lap as she dozes off to sleep. The ground crunches beneath Darcy’s shoes with each step she takes, and her breath is clearly visible as she huffs and puffs down the frosty slope. The snow is getting closer, topping the high mountains that surround them, inching closer to the castle, and even the hat pulled down to her eyebrows and scarf wrapped around her mouth does nothing to keep the bitter breeze from making her face turn bright pink.

Since Lupin’s confession about Hermione’s letter only the previous weekend, Darcy had come back to Hogwarts prepared to chastise Hermione. When she had asked Darcy, in no more than a squeak, “Did you see Lupin this weekend?”, Darcy had quelled her with a single look. The sight of Hermione so wide-eyed and fearful and ready to be snapped at, however, had made Darcy feel quite bad. While she hasn’t let up with the drink, Darcy still hasn’t spoken to Hermione about the letter, and a lot of it had to do with joining forces to keep Ron from running away due to nerves before the first Quidditch match. Ron, who had done a relatively poor job handling the jeering and sneering in the corridors by the Slytherins over the past few weeks (intensified a hundred time in the days prior), had needed his friends more than ever, and Darcy thinks that her own issues can wait until at least the match is over.

“What do those badges say, Hermione?” Darcy murmurs with a groan, as a few sixth year Slytherins pass, laughing and polishing their badges in the shape of crowns. When Hermione doesn’t answer (looking rather sheepish), Darcy snaps her fingers in front of a Slytherin first year and he jumps, blushing when he sees Darcy glowering at him. “Give me your badge, Brendan, _now_.”

Hermione tugs at her sleeve, flashing the boy an apologetic look. “Darcy…”

“Give it to me,” Darcy repeats, holding out her hand. The blond-haired boy places the badge in her upturned palm, running off. She holds it up and reads the words upon it.

_WEASLEY IS OUR KING_.

“Never a dull moment, is there?” Darcy growls, pocketing the badge, and she and Hermione are silent the rest of the walk.

They fill into the stands, shuffling past a few Ravenclaw to find seats with Neville Longbottom, Ginny Weasley, and Luna Lovegood—who has chosen this match to don a lion hat that looks far too real for Darcy’s liking, and which opens its mouth to roar and echo across the grounds. “Hey, Neville,” Darcy says distractedly to the blushing boy, in between he and Hermione, fumbling in her cloak pocket for her pair of binoculars. Swearing loudly, she turns to Hermione. “I forgot my binoculars.”

“I have them here, Darcy,” Hermione replies flatly, pulling an old and battered pair out of her cloak pocket and passing them to Darcy.

“I’d lose my head without you, Hermione,” Darcy mutters, holding the binoculars to her face, blocking out the noise Luna’s hat is making. The Quidditch players are already making their way onto the field—Angelina Johnson leads the Gryffindor team, and Darcy feels a sharp pang at the thought of Oliver. Harry’s looking well, excited with what looks like pre-game jitters that’ll likely go away. Ron looks awful, however, his face tinged green, white-knuckling his broomstick. “He’s going to be sick. Has he seen the badges?”

“I’m sure Malfoy has rubbed it in his face already…”

Darcy focuses her attention on Draco Malfoy, sneering at Harry and Ron by his captain’s side. Behind him, Darcy sees that Crabbe and Goyle have seemed to replace the old Beaters, though she doesn’t think talent runs through their veins. They’re both grinning stupidly, and Darcy lowers her binoculars as Madam Hooch releases the balls into the air and the match begins.

She isn’t sure if it’s the fact that she’s surrounded by younger kids—despite the fact that Darcy and Hermione have grown quite close over the last few months—and not by her best friends. The last Quidditch match she had attended had been as a student, and Emily had been with her, and Oliver had kissed her in front of all of the onlookers…that match had made her heart race, she and Emily had jumped up and down with joy and anxiety as Gryffindor won the House Cup for the first time in years. But now, that joy is gone, and Darcy wouldn’t even be here if Ron didn’t look so terrified. Maybe she would have stuck around for Harry, but Darcy’s seen Harry play many times and she’s sure he wouldn’t mind if she missed one to be with Sirius.

The Quaffle is passed back and forth from Chaser to Chaser, switching hands quickly—Gryffindor and then Slytherin and back in Gryffindor possession again, and Darcy notices the crowd seems louder today. Maybe it’s the fact that, last year, there had been no Quidditch at all, and now with the first match in over a year, it’s gotten people riled up. But Darcy hears Hermione groan in her ear, “Oh no…”

Lee Jordan’s commentary is drowned out with a sudden swell of song from the Slytherins, and Darcy freezes looking around her. Most Slytherins are sitting together in a sea of green and silver, but a few are scattered behind and around Darcy. But as Lee Jordan pauses to hear the song now overpowering him, Darcy lets out a long, weary sigh.

_Weasley cannot save a thing,_  
He cannot block a single ring,  
That’s why Slytherins all sing:   
Weasley is our King.

“Hey! Hey you! Stoner!” Darcy points an accusing finger at a third year Slytherin seated behind her with her friends. The other students around her look from Darcy to the boy, eyebrows raised. “Stop singing that song!”

_Weasley was born in a bin,_  
He always lets the Quaffle in,  
Weasley will make sure we win,  
Weasley is our King.

“Don’t listen to them, Ginny,” Darcy hisses, but Ginny doesn’t seem to be half as affected by the song as Ron. He hovers uncertainly on his broomstick in front of the hoops, drained of all color, as one of the Slytherin Chasers flies towards him with the Quaffle. “Come on, Ron!”

Amid Lee Jordan’s newly invigorated commentary (speaking loud through his megaphone in a feeble attempt to drown out the song), the song itself, and the cheering of Gryffindor supporters, the Slytherin Chaser hurls the Quaffle towards the middle goalpost. It soars right through Ron’s arms, scoring the first goal of the match, and the Slytherins erupt with cheers, stamping their feet and singing louder. Darcy groans, and Hermione with her. Luna’s hat lets out a deafening roar again, nearly shaking the stands.

But Ron doesn’t only let in one goal. He lets in another (the singing grows even louder), and then a third (the singing drowns Lee Jordan’s voice near completely), and a fourth (Darcy’s ears are ringing with the horrible lyrics they’ve made to taunt Ron). Hermione cheers loudly, though it seems the song has finally begun to get to her, as well. If anything, it only makes her scream Ron’s name all the louder, but Darcy follows Harry through her binoculars. As he dives out of sight and Darcy has to find him against amongst the field, she jumps up and down.

“Harry’s seen the Snitch!” Darcy shouts, grabbing Hermione with one hand and shaking her tiny shoulder.

Hermione fixes her own binoculars on Harry, and they watch together as Malfoy races to Harry’s side. But Darcy knows that Malfoy’s Nimbus Two Thousand and One is no match for Harry’s Firebolt—and in the matter of a few seconds, Harry’s fingers close around the Snitch, and she lets out a sigh of relief, turning to smile at Hermione, until—

_WHAM_!

Darcy looks back to the pitch just in time to see a Bludger hit Harry in the small of the back, and she leaps over the people next to her, racing down the stands to get to Harry, who skids across the ground, the Snitch still fluttering feebly in his hand and a goofy smile on his face. With the Gryffindors running into the pitch and the Gryffindor team landing around Harry, Darcy has to push her way through. No one pays her much attention, too busy congratulating the team and Harry, but Darcy can feel Hermione’s fingers grab hold of the back of her cloak.

“...can’t see how you stand the stink, but I suppose when you’ve been dragged up by Muggles even the Weasleys’ hovel smells okay…”

“Malfoy,” Hermione confirms, as Darcy looks over the heads of the students to see who it is that’s talking. Indeed, Draco Malfoy has landed by Harry, looking far too smug for someone who failed to capture the Snitch. “Stop him, Darcy—you’re a teacher!”

But a wall of students still block her from Harry. Fred and George are being restrained, scowls on their faces as they attempt to lunge at Malfoy.

“Or perhaps,” Malfoy continues, giving Harry an oily smile, “you can remember what _your_ mother’s house stank like, Potter, and Weasley’s pigsty reminds you of it—”

Breathless, with Hermione still clutching her cloak, finally having broken through the other Gryffindors, Darcy appears at Harry’s side. “What’s going on here?” she hisses, looking Malfoy in the face, frowning as his lips curl upwards into a smile resembling Snape’s when Harry’s done something he feels deserves detention. “Go to the castle, Malfoy. Just because you’re not as good a Seeker as Harry doesn’t mean you can be a sore loser.”

Malfoy scoffs, looking ready to laugh at loud. “You’re not even a _real_ teacher,” Malfoy retorts, making Darcy blush. “How does it feel to have been dumped by a werewolf, Potter? Pretty sad that you couldn’t even keep a half-breed—”

The rest of his sentence is lost as Harry releases George’s arms. George leaps at Malfoy, and Harry—the Snitch still in his hand—lands a hard punch in Malfoy’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. George knocks Malfoy to the ground, punching everywhere that he can reach as everyone around them screams and shouts, gasping as Harry and George fall on top of Malfoy.

“Darcy, _stop them_!” Hermione screams, her hands over her mouth, watching on in horror.

But Darcy hesitates. She looks down at Malfoy with disdain, feeling no pity for him as Harry’s and George’s fists rain down upon his face, his stomach. In fact, she almost wishes she could launch herself upon Malfoy, as well—she wants to hit him for each time he’d told a lie about her to Umbridge, for every time he’d insulted Lupin, for every time he’d called him a half-breed.

Hermione is still screaming in her ear. “Darcy! Darcy, stop them _now_!”

But Darcy is saved from stopping them by Madam Hooch, who finally arrives at the scene and nearly pushes both Darcy and Hermione to the ground. She breaks up the fight with a single spell, knocking Harry backwards so Darcy is able to have a better view of Malfoy. His nose is bleeding heavily, all over his green and silver Quidditch robes.

“I’ve never seen behavior like it!” Madam Hooch screeches, pulling Harry up by the scruff of his robes and onto his feet. She whirls around, looking Darcy in the face, looking furious. “ _Potter_! Take these boys to Professor McGonagall’s office, _now_!”

Harry and George scramble to Darcy’s side, and the three of them make their way away from the pitch in near silence. George is panting, touching his swollen and bleeding lip as they begin the climb to the castle. Harry is shaking with rage, his face flushed, the Snitch still in his bruised hand, his knuckles purple and swelling. With his hand over his mouth, George’s voice is muffled, but he looks at Darcy gratefully. “Thanks for not stopping us, Darcy,” he mumbles. “About time someone knocked some sense into Malfoy—that little shit—how dare he say those things?”

Harry gives Darcy a wary look, but she keeps her eyes fixed on the castle. It’s only know she’s realized what she’s done by not stopping them, and her heart hammers violently in her chest. Had Umbridge been at the match? Had she watched the entire scene play out? “I’ll speak for you,” she tells them as they enter the castle, quickly making their way towards McGonagall’s office. Darcy glances over her shoulder, expecting to see Umbridge hurrying behind them. “What Malfoy did was foul, but don’t make it any worse—either of you.”

George sighs. “You’re not going to give us a disappointed teacher speech, are you?”

“Must I?” Darcy shoots back at him, jumping the trick step on the staircase. “I’ll save it for McGonagall.”

“I’d much rather hear it from you, Darcy,” George frowns. “Malfoy shouldn’t have said those things about you. He wouldn’t dare talk to another teacher like that.”

“Well, I’m not like the other teachers, am I?”

As soon as Darcy puts her hand on the handle to Professor McGonagall’s office, she comes sweeping up the stairs after them, nostrils flared and face white as a ghost. She forces the three of them inside, and for one wild minute, Darcy’s stomach churns as if she’s about to be scolded for being caught drinking. McGonagall certainly looks furious enough with her to give her a detention, at the very least, and Darcy suddenly feels very sorry she hadn’t broken up the fight. McGonagall places her shaking hands upon her desktop, looking at Harry and George for a long time.

“Explain yourselves,” she commands them in a very dangerous voice.

George begins by telling McGonagall how it had started, giving Darcy a meaningful look as she finishes the story, including exactly what Malfoy had said—not only to Harry and George and Fred—but to Darcy, as well. This only makes McGonagall more furious.

“What could _possibly_ lead you to the conclusion that it was appropriate to fight like animals?” McGonagall snaps, inhaling deeply through her pointed nose. “Have you any idea what you’ve—”

“ _Hem, hem_.”

Darcy’s heart stops, and she instinctively reaches out for McGonagall’s sleeve before stopping herself. Chest heaving, Darcy looks Umbridge in the face—that sickeningly sweet smile on her face can mean nothing good, and Darcy wonders briefly if it would be smarter for her to leave, to run away out of the office and return to Grimmauld Place. Umbridge takes a moment to survey the scene, her smile never leaving her face.

“May I help, Professor McGonagall?” Umbridge asks, taking a few steps into the office.

“Help?” Professor McGonagall asks wearily, her hands balling into fists on the desk.

Darcy and Harry lock eyes for a moment, before they both look back at Umbridge. “I thought you might be grateful for a little extra authority.”

Professor McGonagall stiffens, placing a hand upon Darcy’s shoulder and squeezing a little too hard. “Thankfully, Miss Potter has already come to assist me. Perhaps you could find Mr. Malfoy so he can answer to their claims that he’s insulted Darcy, his teacher, about the company she keeps.” Seemingly deciding to put an end to their meeting, McGonagall’s beady eyes flick between Harry and George, opening her mouth to speak—

“Is that why you stood back and let it happen, Miss Potter?” Umbridge asks again, tilting her head like a pathetic pup and taking another step closer. “Perhaps Miss Potter has not been taught the proper code of conduct for us teachers? If you’ll allow Miss Potter to come with me—”

“She is not your responsibility, Dolores,” Professor McGonagall retorts quickly, her lips very thin and pursed as her cheeks flush. Umbridge raises her eyebrows. “Last I checked, she was Severus’s responsibility, so it will be Severus who corrects her behavior this time. _Go_ , Darcy. Go to Severus.”

Darcy hesitates again, feeling frozen to the spot and feeling a rush of affection for McGonagall. “I—”

“ _Go_ , Potter,” McGonagall says in a low voice, giving Darcy a look that plainly says, _don’t you have somewhere to be_?

Not wanting to seem too eager, Darcy walks straight-backed from the office, closing the door behind her before sprinting to the portrait that hides her room. Sweating slightly and trembling at the thought of what will happen to Harry and George, Darcy grabs her weekend bag and leaves quickly, racing back down the stairs and taking a shortcut around McGonagall’s office towards the dungeons. Snape is just leaving his classroom when she rounds the corner, and he looks absolutely bewildered as she continues down the corridor, nearly running right into him. He catches her by the arms as she talks incoherently, hardly able to breathe.

“What are you saying?” he interrupts, looking beyond confused, gripping her upper arms. “Darcy, what are you doing?”

“Let’s _go_!” Darcy pants, grabbing at the front of his robes and at his wrists and hands, attempting to drag him down the corridor. “ _Please_ —Professor Snape, please, before Umbridge comes looking for me—”

She doesn’t know why the prospect is so frightening, but Darcy doesn’t want to find out what Umbridge would do to her. The invisible lashes on her knuckles is one thing—not that it’s particularly pleasant, but Darcy can go through a lashing session without crying. But to have Umbridge comment on what Malfoy had said to her frightens Darcy. She knows that Umbridge will want a reaction—a reason to punish Darcy after what has just happened down at the Quidditch pitch—and she has a feeling Umbridge will not hold back this time in order to solicit a reaction from Darcy.

But the mention of Umbridge seems to make Snape slightly more alert, slightly more wary. Without asking a single question (Darcy assumes he’d bore witness to the fight, but is thankful he doesn’t say anything cruel about it), Snape puts a hand on her back, pushing her down the corridors. They make their way back outside in silence, and with Darcy’s heart leaping in her throat, her chest on fire from running throughout the castle and up and down stairs, Snape leads her back down the grounds towards Hogsmeade. Darcy barely has time to register the smoke issuing from Hagrid’s cabin’s chimney before they’re gone, lost in a swirl of color for a few short seconds, their feet landing hard upon the front step of twelve Grimmauld Place.

When Sirius opens the door for them, Darcy hardly pays him any mind. She’s crying now, loudly, holding onto the front of Snape’s robes as they cross the threshold. “—what if she expels them? It’ll be all my fault, all because I just stood there and let them do it—and I was _so_ furious—he was insulting our mother, and he said—he said—” Darcy continues for some time like this, and while Snape listens to everything she has to say and everything that had been said to her, he looks exasperated and itching to leave.

“Darcy, listen to me—” Snape’s fingers tighten around her arms, but Darcy does not pull away.

“—am I not a real teacher? Why doesn’t anything think I’m a real teacher—?”

“Stop it, Darcy—” Snape raises his eyebrows, and Darcy feels Sirius touch her shoulder, but shakes him off without thinking.

“—Professor Snape, please, I don’t want—”

“Darcy, _listen to me_ ,” Snape hisses, his hands jumping from her arms to touch her face. Darcy isn’t sure if it’s the gesture or his firm tone that makes her quiet. “Be _quiet_ —for just two minutes.”

She looks up into his face, his hands still upon her cheeks, Sirius still standing just behind her, likely scowling no doubt. Part of her wishes Snape would wipe her tears away, if only to remember what it’s like again, but Snape does no such thing. He allows her hot tears to fall onto his thumbs, making his hands wet. Once, Darcy thinks, she would have been frightened of Snape in this position, afraid that he would strike her or shake her or hurt her. But she is not fearful anymore, and there is no doubt in her mind that Snape would never hurt her, especially not in front of her godfather.

“Draco will be punished appropriately—close your mouth, Darcy, and let me finish—” Snape lowers his hands from her face, brushing off the front of his robes and prying Darcy’s fingers off them. She lets her long arms dangle awkwardly at her sides. “Draco will be punished appropriately, Umbridge will not touch you, and your brother will not be expelled.” Snape’s eyes flick to Sirius, out of sight behind Darcy. He lifts his hands, brushing dirt off of Darcy’s shoulders. “Nine o’clock Sunday. I hope, by then, your godfather will have learned not to ogle with his mouth wide open while two people are having a private conversation.”

Darcy nods, sighing, feeling defeated. “Yes, Professor.”

As soon as Snape leaves, Sirius throws his hands in the air, pointing an accusing finger at Darcy before she even takes a step. “If he _ever_ puts hands on you again, I’ll kill him myself.”

She looks at Sirius incredulously, wondering how he could have possibly not cared about anything else she’d said, only to be more angry at Snape touching her. Darcy lets out a frustrated growl, stamping down the hallway and starting up the stairs.

Sirius’s voice seems to follow. “When you’re done acting like a thirteen-year-old, come have a drink with your godfather!”

This only makes Darcy growl again. 


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy thanksgiving!!

As Darcy is setting the table for dinner, there’s a knock on the front door. Halfway through finishing her lamb sauce, they knock again, and Darcy can’t hear anyone jumping down the stairs to get it. “Sirius!” Darcy shouts, hoping she isn’t being too loud that Mrs. Black will wake. When Sirius doesn’t call back, she grumbles under her breath before calling for someone else. “Remus! Gemma! The door!”

“Got it,” comes Gemma’s voice, light footsteps making their way lower and lower down the stairs. “Quit yelling, would you?”

“You were the one who wanted this dinner,” Darcy reminds her, hearing Gemma chuckle. “I’m working my ass off in here with no one to talk to—cut me some slack.”

Gemma unlocks the door and Darcy hears her open it wide, stirring the sauce a few times and pouring it onto the finished lamb. As Darcy goes to slice the meat, she hears Gemma say, “Hey, Professor.”

Darcy rolls her eyes, setting the fork and knife down loudly on the countertop and brushing off her hands. She opens her mouth, preparing to tell Snape to leave her alone, when Gemma appears in the kitchen with Professor McGonagall, and the words die in her throat. McGonagall looks angry and exasperated and relieved and distressed all at once, and when she nearly runs around the table to get to Darcy, Darcy recoils, protecting her earlobes from any wandering fingers. She backs into the counter and Professor McGonagall touches her shoulder, squeezing.

“Severus said he’d gotten you here without issue, Potter, but it is good to see you here safe regardless.” McGonagall’s eyes flick to Gemma, still leaning against the doorframe, arms over her chest. “A word, Potter—in private?”

“In private?” Darcy repeats, and Professor McGonagall nods curtly. “No, please—stay for dinner. I was just going to call everyone down, and whatever you have to say to me, you can say to everyone here.”

Professor McGonagall eyes her warily for a moment, but then they warm again. “Very well,” she sighs. “Only because the lamb _does_ look very good.”

Gemma finishes setting the table as Darcy fetches Sirius and Lupin, and they don’t seem at all hesitant at the fact McGonagall will be dining with them. They all make small talk at first, complimenting Darcy’s cooking and making her blush furiously; McGonagall asks Gemma about her potion, which quickly becomes a twenty-five minute long rambling session. And then, as they all quiet, Darcy looks up at her old Transfiguration teacher and notices a weariness that Darcy can’t remember ever seeing on her face.

“What did she do to Harry?” Darcy finally asks.

Gemma, Lupin, and Sirius pause, all three of them having heard the story of the Quidditch match just a few hours ago. Everyone’s eyes find McGonagall, and she wipes her mouth, lowering her napkin back into her lap. Taking care to look directly into Darcy’s face, McGonagall answers, “Your brother is banned from playing Quidditch, along with the Weasley twins.”

“Fred didn’t do anything,” Darcy replies quickly. “Fred didn’t even touch Malfoy.”

McGonagall purses her lips. “I know that,” she says. “But it was not up to me. Professor Umbridge had what must be the _fiftieth_ Educational Decree. She now has the power to override us _regular_ teachers in regards to punishments. She can strip pupils of their privileges, among a great many other things.” Looking still more anxious, she adds, “Which is why I am so glad to see you here safe and untouched.”

Part of Darcy wants to laugh—banned from Quidditch? That almost seems laughable compared to what Darcy had been thinking of. She had thought Umbridge would resort to crude, physical violence—a lash across the hands, carving lines into the back of his hand. But Darcy also knows that stripping Harry of Quidditch will take away the thing that makes him happiest. Umbridge knows it, McGonagall knows it—and it’s the only thing that’s keeping Darcy from laughing. Umbridge has now done to Harry what she’d done to Darcy— _a low blow_ , she thinks. _She’s not afraid to hit us both where it hurts._

Darcy thinks she knows the answer to her question already, but asks anyway. “And Malfoy? Did she punish him for saying the things he said?”

“No,” Professor McGonagall says quietly. “There is no easy way to say this, Potter, but I am concerned about your safety while you are at school.”

A long silence follows this admission. Gemma quickly returns to her meal, grabbing more lamb and piling Lupin’s plate full again, clearing her throat. Sirius picks up his silverware, making a little more noise than necessary. Darcy admires them for attempting to be tactful, and tries to pretend it’s just her and McGonagall speaking. By the ferocity of McGonagall’s intense gaze, Darcy thinks that’s what she’s trying to do, as well.

“My safety?” Darcy repeats, her voice suddenly hoarse, as if she hasn’t used it in years. Surely it’s a joke, and Darcy feels the corners of her lips tug gently into a smile. “Why—what?”

McGonagall’s eyes—for a split second—glance to Darcy’s hands, and her smile fades. “You are being physically hurt under Hogwarts’ roof because Umbridge suspects you a liar—she suspects you one of Dumbledore’s. As long as you continue to lie to her, she will punish you, and that is a burden you should never have been asked to bear and it is intolerable. The Order has taken a vote and, by an overwhelming majority, we have decided to speak with Dumbledore about removing you from Hogwarts.”

“A burden I should never have been asked to bear?” Darcy repeats coldly, and all pretense is dropped. Gemma, Lupin, and Sirius all watch, seemingly holding their breath as one. She looks around at them all, furious. “No. _No_ , I’m not leaving. Harry needs me—”

“Harry is not only _your_ responsibility,” Professor McGonagall cuts across her, back to her crisp and professional self. “We—myself, Dumbledore, Severus— _we_ will make sure Harry is safe.”

“No!” Darcy says again, splaying her hands on the tabletop. “No—you can’t do that! I—I’m _good_ at what I do—you can’t take away—”

“It is best for you to lay low for a little while,” McGonagall continues, paying no heed to Darcy’s argument. “I will not risk your safety while you have a safe place to stay—Sirius, I do not think you’ll object?”

“Not at all,” Sirius replies, and Darcy hates that he smiles about it.

Darcy shakes her head. “And you all agreed with this?” she asks, looking desperately at her friends and godfather. “You want to remove me from Hogwarts?”

“Not me!” Gemma snaps defensively, pointing towards Lupin and Sirius. “I _told_ them you belong at Hogwarts, but they didn’t listen!”

Sirius opens his mouth to argue, but Darcy speaks first. “What about Professor Snape?” she whispers, heart racing. If Snape still wants her there, then there’s a chance…after all, he’d promised that she would remain there at Hogwarts, with him. _Or was it just another empty promise_? “What did Professor Snape think about this idea?”

Professor McGonagall looks curiously at Darcy. “It was his own wish that you remain at Hogwarts to finish out the rest of the year.” McGonagall fidgets uncomfortably, most unlike herself. “He has spoken with Dumbledore about it already, though what was discussed, Dumbledore will not tell me. But Severus needs to remember that your safety and well-being should be put before any _personal_ desires—”

“If Professor Snape will have me, I’m going back,” Darcy says firmly. Her heart soars at the idea that it hadn’t been only an empty promise. Snape was going to do everything he could to keep her at Hogwarts, and though he may not be able to keep her safe from everything (for who could possibly do that?), Darcy knows that she will be all right at Hogwarts. A few lashes against her hands are nothing compared to what Vernon had done for years, and Darcy is still alive after all this time. “Even if he didn’t want me back, I’d still go. He promised me that he wouldn’t let anyone send me away.”

And this time, it is not McGonagall who answers, but Lupin, his arms folded across his chest. The lamb Gemma had piled onto his plate is untouched, and there’s a hint of annoyance in his eyes. Gemma holds her head in her hands, as if already knowing whatever is going to come out of his mouth will not be good. “Only last week you’d spoken of being a caged bird,” he says bitterly. “And now you are offered freedom, yet you seem so eager to return to your cage.”

“Is this what you call freedom?” Darcy retorts, her voice sharp, cracking like a whip. “I am forced to choose between this place, where I will not even be able to see the sun, or Hogwarts—where I can continue to do what I am good at, where my brother currently is. I will not be free until the war is over, or I am dead.” She frowns. “Don’t pretend like I would be free to do whatever I’d like here.”

“Potter,” McGonagall sighs, and she says Darcy’s name in such an affectionate manner, it’s hard not to smile. “We cannot ask you to carry this burden. I cannot stand by and watch you continue to be punished for protecting our secrets.”

“Professor, I can do it—”

“But you shouldn’t have to.” McGonagall looks hopelessly towards Lupin, perhaps looking for some backup, judging by be exasperation clearly present in her face. “Like I said, the majority of us wish to see you safe and out of harm’s way. That is the most important part to us, so I will be speaking with the Headmaster when I return to Hogwarts—”

“I’m not a child!” Darcy shrieks, her face bright red. How _dare_ they sit there and claim to know what is best for Darcy? Vernon has been hurting her for years—where were they to discuss pulling her out of that house? Why do they only care now that she’s being hurt, when she’s been hurt so much worse before? “The Order has no right to decide what is best for me without even talking to me about it first. I am out of school, twenty-years-old, and I am capable of finishing out the year, at least.”

Gemma winks at her from across the table, but no one else seems to agree with Darcy. Sirius strokes the well-groomed beard on his face, twirling the ends of his trimmed mustache, lost in thought. Lupin runs a hand through his hair, sighing.

Looking at Lupin with the fiercest gaze she can muster, Darcy tells him, “You know how much this means to me. You _know_ that I belong at Hogwarts.”

Lupin clasps his hands together on the table, sharing a glance with Sirius. She has the idea that they’ve had this conversation before, that they might have even practiced it together, and it only makes Darcy angrier. It’s as if a spotlight is shining down on her—four pairs of eyes roving her face, each with a different expression, whether it be concern or pride or sadness or pity.

“Darcy,” Lupin begins carefully, as if she is liable to explode at a wrong word. “This wouldn’t have to be for forever. I think time away from Hogwarts may do you some good—you can clear your head, not have to worry about classes, not have to worry about Severus bothering you—”

“Professor Snape doesn’t bother me,” Darcy hisses, and Lupin raises his eyebrows as if her response had been expected. “I’m not going to run away because Umbridge frightens me. I’m safe at Hogwarts—Snape won’t let anything happen to me.”

At last, Sirius decides to speak. Darcy hopes that he will confirm to everyone that she is, most certainly, not a child, that she is able to make her own decisions, that she can handle whatever is thrown at her while at Hogwarts. “Darcy, sweetheart,” he says, offering her a small, forced smile. “We could be a proper family. You and me—we could be the family we never got to be all those years ago.”

“What about Harry?” she asks him softly, feeling a pang in her heart at the thought of she and Sirius playing at father-daughter while Harry is stuck—alone—with Umbridge. “I’m not going to just leave him there with no way of contacting me.” Instinctively, her hands moves to her pocket, where the fake Knut still is, not yet burning. “I made my decision months ago and it cost me everything, and I am not changing my mind. I’m going back to Hogwarts, so tell Professor Snape I will see him tomorrow at nine.”

Professor McGonagall doesn’t look very happy about it, but there are no further arguments. “Very well. I’ll see you Monday, Potter.”

* * *

_This is where I am meant to be_ , Darcy thinks. Her head settled in Gemma’s lap with fingers raking through her hair, eyes closed and the firelight dancing on her face. Thankfully, Gemma hadn’t felt the need to chastise her about the drink, and instead had opened a bottle of sweet, rich red. Darcy hadn’t missed the dangerous look Lupin had thrown Gemma upon retrieving a glass for herself and a glass for Darcy, but Gemma had chosen to ignore him completely.

They talk for a bit—Gemma had admired the way Darcy stood up for herself in front of McGonagall, and Darcy isn’t sure if it’s the wine or the adrenaline still surging through her that’s making her light-headed. Gemma is even proud enough to press her lips drunkenly over and over again to Darcy’s face and neck and collarbones, staining her fair skin with bright red lipstick. Darcy, though still ashamed of Oliver ending things with her, allows herself to relish the feeling of honest lips against her flesh—even if those lips are Gemma’s. Gemma doesn’t kiss her mouth, though, and Darcy isn’t sure if it bothers her or not. It seems a very intimate thing, to have lips placing chaste kisses on her throat in a room where anyone could just walk in.

“Let me ask you something, Darcy,” Gemma smiles, burying her face into the crook of Darcy’s neck. “Does it bother you when I kiss you?”

“No,” she answers truthfully, turning her head to smile at Gemma. Slowly, her smile vanishes. “I hate being alone.”

“That makes two of us,” Gemma chortles, lifting her head and laughing at the lipstick all over Darcy’s face.

Darcy sighs, drinking more wine, knowing she shouldn’t. “Thank you,” she says again, shifting on the hard carpeting, “for standing up for me. For telling everyone I belong at Hogwarts.”

“But you do belong at Hogwarts,” Gemma insists, grinning toothily now. “When you come here every weekend, and you tell us about classes and about the first years—I’ve never seen you talk about anything the way you talk about teaching.” She frowns at Darcy’s unconvinced look. “I almost had Lupin convinced, you know. He agreed with me—he wanted to have you sent back to Hogwarts, but then Sirius talked him out of it after he purposefully dragged Snape into it. It drives Lupin crazy, you know—you and Snape.”

Running a hand through her hair, Darcy heaves another great sigh. “Why do I care about him _so_ much?” she whispers, looking into the fire, suddenly very sad.

She’s very glad Gemma understands without her having to explain. “Because he cares for you.”

“So it’s true then, isn’t it? A man shows me the slightest bit of affection and I am lost in them.” Darcy shakes her head, wanting to beat some sense into herself.

“When I said that, Darcy, I never meant it in a shameful way,” Gemma explains quickly, looking very serious in the glow of the firelight. “You should never be ashamed of wanting to be loved. I never meant it to hurt you.”

Darcy doesn’t really think Gemma’s apology all that necessary, but doesn’t say anything against it. “I want to hate him so badly, after all he’s done to me. I mean—he was a Death Eater.” At this, Gemma raises her eyebrows, and Darcy utters a soft apology. “He was cruel to me and Harry, lost Remus his job, lied about Sirius—but I can’t hate him.”

Gemma exhales through her nose, shrugging. “Everyone makes mistakes,” she says sagely. “Sirius nearly killed him, but you still love Sirius, don’t you?”

“More than anything,” Darcy confesses. “But I’ve been thinking about what Sirius said—about what Snape said about my mother. He hasn’t told me, but I—Gemma, I’m afraid that if I hear the story from anyone’s lips but Snape’s, it will change my mind about him.”

“Sirius and Lupin will likely be thrilled if you do change your mind,” Gemma teases. “I’m sure Sirius is half-convinced Snape is plotting your death as we speak. He doesn’t listen to me when I tell him Snape would never hurt you.”

Darcy finishes her wine, mulling this over. “You really believe that?” she asks, looking at Gemma again. Her dark eyes reflect the orange glow—not a soft brown like Hermione’s or a warm brown like Lupin’s, but rich and deep and seemingly cold, though Darcy knows better.

“I do,” Gemma grins, holding up Darcy’s glass to refill it. “And I think that it would be difficult to find anything in this world that Snape loves more than you.”

“Gemma, I…” Darcy scoffs. “I don’t love him like that. And he probably only cares about me because of my mother—”

“No, Darcy. I’m sure Snape knows very well who you truly are by now.” Gemma leans forward, curious, her eyes narrowed. “What do you want from Snape?”

“Nothing,” Darcy says, unsure if it’s the truth or not. “I just—I trust him.”

Gemma hums in response, clearly bored of talking about Snape. She places her fingertip to Darcy’s neck, as if feeling for a pulse. “I missed a spot,” she says sweetly, brushing her thumb over the bare skin there and resting her cheek on Darcy’s scarred shoulder. “Let’s go to bed. I’m tired and I have to work before the sun rises tomorrow.”

“Not yet,” Darcy says, crossing her legs and looking into the fire. The flames have warmed her cup, making the wine warmer than usual. She half considers going to the kitchen and spicing it with cinnamon, but doesn’t think that a good idea—it’ll only make Darcy drink more. “I’ll be up in a little bit.”

Gemma hums again, a near silent goodnight, and before pushing herself to her feet, Gemma kisses the place where her finger had been. Darcy closes her eyes, imagining a world where Gemma’s lips are Lupin’s lips, and it’s his teeth grazing against her pulse, his tongue darting out to taste her skin. And as Gemma’s lips (thinner than Lupin’s, softer than Lupin’s) continue to pepper sweet kisses up her neck, Darcy is filled with a sudden desire to allow herself to enjoy it. Gemma knows that Darcy is interested in one person and one person only, and Darcy knows that Gemma loves her very much, and this knowledge is what makes Darcy turn her head to kiss Gemma full on the mouth.

“Are we drunk, Darcy?” Gemma asks, her voice gravelly against Darcy’s lips.

“I think we’re just lonely,” Darcy answers.

Gemma laughs against Darcy’s mouth, a sweet laughter. “A deadly combination,” she whispers, capturing Darcy’s mouth in a tender kiss again.

It’s so sweet to be kissed by someone who knows her, who understands her, who loves her, that Darcy can’t stop herself. Gemma isn’t at all who she wants to kiss, but it’s a warm feeling that it gives her, and she doesn’t want that feeling to go away. Gemma is not at all shy or reluctant or nervous—and Darcy can’t understand why she is. After all, Gemma is her best friend, the person she trusts most in the world.

Gemma’s mouth leaves Darcy’s kissing down her throat again, and Darcy feels her heart racing painfully, her hands clammy and sweaty, and Darcy keeps her eyes shut tight, trying hard to imagine it’s not Gemma kissing her, but the feeling is wrong. “Gemma—”

“Relax, Darcy,” Gemma breathes, smiling reassuringly at Darcy and positioning herself closing. She places her fingers beneath Darcy’s chin, lifting her face to expose her neck, and a wave of vulnerability washes over Darcy. She feels—even clothed—completely bare, completely naked in front of Gemma. Gemma’s lips touch the hollow of Darcy’s throat, and Darcy is surprised at the gasp that escapes her. “Do you trust me?”

Darcy opens her eyes to find Gemma looking right at her, not grinning or smirking. Gemma’s brow is furrowed, waiting for an answer. Nodding very slowly, Darcy stammers, “Yes, but I—”

“But what?” Gemma reaches up to tuck some of Darcy’s hair behind her ears. She frowns. “Don’t feel like you can’t refuse me. You know I won’t be insulted.”

“You’re my best friend,” Darcy rasps, taking Gemma’s hands and squeezing. “My best friend in the whole world, and I love you. I love you so much that I would feel too guilty…thinking of him while you’re being so sweet to me.”

This makes Gemma laugh. Darcy’s quite glad to see Gemma had been telling the truth—she doesn’t insulted in the slightest. “Tell me true, then—do I kiss better than Lupin?”

“No,” Darcy says with a grin, and Gemma cackles. “I think I prefer a beard, to be completely honest.”

“I was going easy on you,” Gemma replies, waving an impatient hand, still smiling. “You don’t know the full extent of my kissing prowess.”

“Then show me.”

Gemma blinks in surprise, clearly not having expected that reaction from Darcy. Darcy hadn’t expected to say it either, and her heart still pounds wildly in her chest. “You want me to?” Gemma asks, a smirk playing at her lips. “Or are you only teasing me, my little lion?”

Darcy hesitates, swallowing hard. “I don’t mind.”

Gemma narrows her eyes, but leans back in all the same and kisses Darcy hard again. But this time, it is not an innocent and tender kiss—it’s a kiss that nearly knocks Darcy backwards, until Gemma puts a hand on her shoulder and lowers her onto her back. Darcy is blushing and sweating in earnest now, not having expected Gemma to really take it so far. Gemma opens her mouth wider, deepening the kiss, her tongue swiping the inside of Darcy’s mouth and brushing against Darcy’s tongue, and as Darcy goes to admit she can’t do this, the door of the drawing room opens, but they are far too late in pulling away to avoid being caught in the act.

Both of them panting, Gemma climbs off Darcy and smiles innocently at Lupin in the doorway. “Can we help you with something, or have to come to ogle us like a twelve-year-old boy?”

Lupin’s cheeks are slightly pink, and he avoids looking either of them in the eyes. “I see.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Gemma tells him, getting clumsily to her feet and making for the door, brushing past him. “We were only have a little drunken fun, weren’t we, Darcy?”

But Darcy finds she has trouble looking Lupin in the eyes, as well, and she doesn’t answer. Suddenly, with a rush of shame and humiliation, Darcy wants him. But he doesn’t want me. She feels as foolish as she did the day Gryffindor had won the Quidditch Cup, and Oliver had kissed her in front of all those students—in plain sight of Lupin.

Gemma closes the door of the drawing room, seemingly bringing Lupin back to reality. He swears loudly, turning to open the door—“She’s locked us in,” he growls, holding out his hand. “Give me your wand, Darcy.”

“I don’t have my wand,” she answers coolly from the ground. “It’s in my bedroom. Where’s your wand?”

Lupin sighs, resting his forehead against the door. “In my bedroom.” He whirls, so quickly that it startles Darcy. “You and Gemma, then?”

“No,” Darcy snaps, a little too harshly. “Do I look so stupid with lipstick everywhere?” She wipes furiously at her face, feeling that she’s only making it worse.

“You look fine—you look...impossibly cute.” He immediately looks as if he regrets saying this. “Put that glass down,” Lupin hisses, as Darcy raises her wine glass to her lips. “You don’t need to be drinking.”

“You’re being rude.”

“You’re being reckless,” Lupin says, pacing back and forth. “You should stop being so goddamn stubborn for once and listen to everyone else around you.”

Darcy watches him, bewildered. Had the sight of she and Gemma really angered him so much, or is there another reason he seems so troubled? “Remus, what are you talking about?” Darcy scoffs. “I’m still able to talk, I’m not seeing double—I think I’ll be fine.”

“Not just the drink,” Lupin mumbles, stopping his pacing and running both hands through his hair. His long legs take him quickly to the sofa, where he seats himself and looks accusingly at Darcy. “You drink constantly, you smoke all the time, you insist on being at Hogwarts where you’re being tortured, you have seemingly no respect for yourself—”

Darcy stands up so suddenly that she almost vomits. The blood rushes to her head, making her temples throb. “Excuse me? What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Lupin flinches, as if he knows what he’s said is wrong, but he doesn’t seem ready to back down. “I’m only saying that—well, I mean—” Lupin hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Gavin, Oliver, Gemma—”

“Is the problem that you’re concerned I’m kissing too many people, or is it that I’m not kissing you?” Darcy bristles. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t respect myself because I’ve decided to kiss other people.”

His face flooding with color now, Lupin looks away from her. “That’s not the point,” he says quietly, in a tone that brooks no further argument. “The point is, it’s unwise of you to return to Hogwarts with Umbridge there. You don’t realize what she could do to you—”

“She won’t do anything to me,” Darcy counters. “Not so long as Professor Snape is there. As long as I’m with Snape, I am safe.” But Darcy doesn’t miss the muscle jump in his jaw, and she scoffs again. “You don’t want me to go running back to Snape, is that it?”

It’s Lupin’s turn to bristle. He gets back to his feet, puffing his chest out importantly, trying to make himself seem bigger, Darcy’s sure. But he’s so close to her now that she could reach out and touch him. “I don’t like way he puts hands on you—I don’t like the way he touches you as if he is _entitled_ to your body. I don’t like the way he looks at you, nor do I like the way he speaks to you.”

“And how is that, exactly?”

“You know very well what I mean.”

“I trust Professor Snape with my life,” Darcy says slowly.

“That’s going to get you hurt,” Lupin replies, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “Severus only cares about Severus, and a long time ago, he once cared very deeply for your mother. If you think Severus sees you as anyone other than Lily—”

“Professor Snape knows very well who I am,” Darcy protests, but she doesn’t know if she fully believes it. All she knows is that she wants to believe it. “You don’t know what he says to me in private.”

 _Funny_ , she thinks. _I once said that about Lupin, when my friends were convinced he was taking advantage of me._

“Do I want to know what Severus might say to you in private?” Lupin frowns, and instead of accusing her of something, he just sounds sad. It makes Darcy feel  
guilty.

He looks at her with wide, wounded looking eyes—the same sad look he’d give her when he didn’t want her to leave him to return to Hogwarts on Sundays. Darcy inhales deeply, unsure of what to say, not very keen to reveal the personal and intimate moments she’d shared with Snape over the past few months. Instead, Darcy stands on her toes, a hand upon Lupin’s chest to place a kiss on his cheek. This makes him smile very slightly.

The drawing room door knob rattles, making them both jump apart. “Why is this locked? Is someone in there?”

“Yes!” Lupin answers, racing to the door at the sound of Sirius’s voice. “Let us out, Padfoot.”

The door swings open to find Sirius examining the scene with a look of half-disgust and half-exasperation. Darcy mutters a quick goodnight to both of them, sneaking off to bed.

* * *

Monday morning is a nightmare, but not for any particularly horrible reasons. In fact, her first year class goes perfectly fine. They yawn a bit more often than Darcy might like, but she doesn’t say anything because she’s yawning far more often than usual, as well.

She’d been up late last night. Snape had arrived at Grimmauld Place at nine o’clock on the dot—just like always—and as soon as they’d reached Hogwarts, Snape had left her at Hagrid’s hut before continuing to the castle himself. Darcy and Hagrid had stayed up well into the night talking, and found they had very much to talk about, keeping them distracted and uncaring about the hours slipped by, along with several bottles of brandy.

Hagrid hadn’t looked good. At first glance, Darcy was vividly reminded of the days during summers past where Vernon had beaten her bloody; Hagrid’s face had been littered with fresh cuts and puffy bruises, probably much worse than it seems with his scruffy black beard hiding the majority of his face. He hadn’t told her exactly how his injuries came about, but did indulge her about his journey north to find and recruit the giants with Madame Maxime. With the eager way Hagrid had begun the tale, Darcy expected the mission to have been a success, only to stammer stupidly towards the end, upon learning that Hagrid did not recruit the giants and had lost Madame Maxime along the way. Clearly not wanting to dwell on it, Darcy had told Hagrid all about her successful lessons, Umbridge inspecting her, the awkward living arrangements with her godfather, her best friend who sometimes kisses her, and the man she loves more than anything in the world. She had even admitted to Hagrid that Umbridge put her on probation, and Hagrid had made sure not to make her feel too bad or embarrassed about it.

And then, only this morning, she’d woken up an hour before breakfast by Harry pounding on her bedroom door, wide awake and furious. When Darcy had opened the door for him, he’d filled in her on what had happened after McGonagall had dismissed her. Having been told this already, Darcy had only half-listened, making noises of indignation and scoffing every so often to appease Harry (it works wonders, and Harry even allows Darcy to kiss his forehead before departing for breakfast).

But once her kid brother stops following her around and talking her ear off, and Darcy’s drank a few cups of coffee, she begins to perk up. She hasn’t spoken much to Snape since arriving back at Hogwarts—not that she’s really had a chance to speak with him privately and not in front of a class of curious students. But as the bell rings, signaling the end of lessons and the beginning of lunch, Darcy hangs around the classroom awkwardly as the students file out. She smiles at them, bidding them goodbye.

When Darcy closes the door, Snape looks up, freezing halfway through sorting homework. He eyes her nervously—or perhaps that’s just him looking curious. Darcy makes a mental note to try to learn how to read him properly. After almost ten years of knowing him, and his facial expression still stump her. Except for loathing—she knows loathing very well.

“Professor McGonagall came to see me this weekend,” Darcy says, clearing her throat, very nervous for some reason.

“I’m aware,” he replies.

“Right, sorry.” Darcy tucks her hair behind her ears, blushing. “I just wanted to say…thank you, for talking to Professor Dumbledore about me staying here.”

Snape opens and closes his mouth quickly, clearly not having expected this. “I promised you that you would remain here,” he finally answers. “Is that what you want?”

Darcy nods, and Snape gives one his small, odd smiles before looking back down at his desk, rifling through the many pieces of parchment. Before she leaves, heading off to lunch, Darcy briefly considers asking Snape if he sees her as her mother or as herself—but she knows the question will only prompt an argument that she’d rather not have and, in the end, she decides she’d rather not know. 


	33. Chapter 33

“Darcy? Can I ask you something?”

“Of course you can.” Darcy flashes Harry a smile, cleaning the coffee table of their finished dinners, placing the empty plates on the counter that lines the opposite wall. “You know you can just ask your question. You don’t need my permission.”

He had been the only one so far to actually convince Darcy to put the alcohol away; there isn’t much Darcy wouldn’t do for Harry already, and it had proved quite easy to put her wine away upon his simple request. It put him at ease, seemingly, and though it was clear Harry hadn’t expected her to comply, he had seemed very pleased afterwards. Now, however, his mood has changed drastically, from an airiness (Darcy has a strong feeling Harry only pretends not to be bothered by anything in order to keep her happy) to something troublesome. He gazes distantly into the fire, apparently lost in thought, and he doesn’t ask his question until Darcy sits back down beside him, fussing with his untidy hair.

“The thestrals,” Harry begins, and when he tilts his head, the firelight casts a glare upon his round glasses, making him look temporarily blind. Then he looks at her directly, and his bright green eyes—the same as Darcy’s—are visible once again behind the lenses. “You can see them?”

Darcy frowns, not upset in the slightest, but definitely intrigued. “I’ve been able to see them since my first year,” she answers slowly, her eyebrows knitting together. “Haven’t—haven’t you?”

Harry hesitates, and finally shakes his head. This surprises Darcy, who had assumed Harry had always been able to see the thestrals—the skeletal horses that had always pulled the carriages up to the castle, with their leathery wings and milky white eyes—who could only be seen by those that had witnessed death. Harry had indeed been hardly older than a baby, but he had been in the crib—he had been there for the death of their mother.

“I’ve only ever seen them this year,” Harry explains. “I saw them pulling the carriages, and Hagrid just used them for lessons.” He exhales loudly, almost relieved. “I thought I was going crazy when no one else could see them.”

_After Cedric_ , Darcy realizes. _He didn’t understand what was happening when mum died_. She wonders if it is a blessing or a curse to remember everything. “Grief is a terrible, terrible thing, Harry. I’m sure you know that by now.” Darcy combs his hair back again, smiling weakly. “Professor Dumbledore told me last year that it is human to grieve, to hurt, to feel. Do you know what I think?”

Harry gives her a puzzled look. “What?”

Darcy leans into him, lowering her voice, her heart aching painfully. “I think it is cruel. I think, sometimes, it would be kinder to not feel at all.”

“When will it get better?”

She leans back into the sofa, thinking for a moment. There is a question beneath this—a question she knows Harry is likely too uncomfortable to ask. “Harry, I did not get the help I needed after mum and dad died. I was very young, and very alone, and—it was very hard for me.” Darcy swallows the lump in her throat. She’s always hated talking to Harry about the days as a young girl, caring for her young brother, frightened and lonely and sad. “But you are not alone, and things will get easier.”

Harry doesn’t answer. He works his jaw for a few moments.

“Harry,” she says, forcing another small smile. “You know that I love you?”

His lips tighten, fighting back tears. Harry quickly looks away from her, swallowing loudly.

“Whatever comes, we’ll get through it,” she says, bumping her knee against his and grinning. It is so easy to do around Harry, she finds. “We always do.”

* * *

“God, you’re so boring, Darcy. Professor Snape has been a bad influence on you.”

“I’ll be done in a minute,” Darcy retorts, not bothering to look up from the essay in front of her. She scribbles a hasty correction with her quill, hearing Gemma sigh loudly from the opposite corner of the room. There’s a _click_! and a flash, and Darcy lifts her eyes to find Gemma smiling at her, shaking a picture in her hand. “You’re wasting film by taking such a stupid photo.”

“Don’t you want to commemorate this moment forever?” Gemma teases, still shaking the picture furiously. “I don’t think there’s a single picture in your album that even eludes to the fact that you’re a teacher.”

“I’m an assistant.” Darcy blushes, looking back down at the messy essay. Suddenly, the bed seems very comfortable, and the knowledge that there are others in the kitchen is very tempting—but she’s been putting off work all week and now she’s reaping the consequences. “A _glorified_ assistant, as Malfoy likes to remind me.”

“Well, you seem a proper teacher to me,” Gemma shrugs, placing the camera down atop the dresser and moving closer to Darcy, holding out the photograph. Darcy glances at it, chuckling—most of her face is hidden by the book and parchment resting on her knees, but Darcy sees her own eyebrows knitted very close together, her forehead creased with concentration, eyes narrowed and the feather of her quill brushing her lips. “I think Professor Snape would agree, don’t you?”

“He might be the only one,” Darcy mutters, frowning as she crosses out a very butchered spelling of _essence_ , correcting it with a sigh. “Go join the fun without me. Tell them I’ll be down in a little bit. I want to finish these before anything.”

But Gemma’s at the window, looking out across the snow covered square. “Let’s have a snowball fight,” she says with a grin, wriggling her eyebrows. “It’ll be like third year all over again. Great year for snow at Hogwarts, wasn’t it?”

“I’m not supposed to leave the house.”

“Can I put this picture in your photo album?”

“Sure.” Darcy nods towards the dresser. “Check the top drawer.”

Gemma pulls the new photo album out, the one Lupin had gotten her for an early birthday present. When Gemma opens it gingerly to put the newest photograph in, she frowns and looks incredulously at Darcy. “You’ve barely put any pictures in,” she says, flipping through the blank pages. “What have you been doing at Hogwarts?”

“Drowning myself in liquor and misery,” Darcy hisses, feeling herself blush furiously again. “And that doesn’t make for a good picture.”

“So take pictures while you’re here,” Gemma answers, placing the picture of Darcy carefully on a blank page and replacing the album in the top dresser drawer. “There never does seem to be a dull moment around here. Always something interesting that’s begging for a picture to be taken.”

“Gemma, could you please be quiet for like, ten minutes?” Darcy asks, looking up and receiving a cold look from Gemma. “I’m busy, come on. Just…go down there and I’ll meet you in a minute.”

“Darcy, you have an entire day to get these done tomorrow,” Gemma says, crossing her arms. “And I can smell dinner, and it smells amazing, and _please_ can we just go down there?”

Darcy grinds her teeth, looking at Gemma over the essay. And then, feeling ready to burst, Darcy’s stomach gives a loud grumble and she admits defeat, allowing Gemma to drag her out of the bedroom by the hand and down to the kitchen. A few Order members are milling around the table already, picking at cold slices of meat and drinking bubbly champagne and laughing with each other. Mundungus Fletcher is talking in a low voice with Sirius, who has a suspicious grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye. Mr. Weasley and Lupin are chatting amiably, chuckling; Lupin catches Darcy’s eye and holds her gaze long enough to make her blush. Emily and Tonks are lingering at Mrs. Weasley’s shoulders, eyeing the ham that’s now being sliced for an early-Christmas gathering Gemma had nearly begged for (her own parents being huge lovers of the holidays, Gemma had never able to spend Christmas with her friends). Even Mad-Eye Moody and Kingsley have stopped by, talking in low voices in a corner. Kingsley swirls the dark red wine in his glass, but Moody drinks only from his personal flask.

“Oh! Darcy!”

Darcy smiles weakly as Mr. Weasley’s skinny fingers wrap around her wrist, pulling her towards him and Lupin. “Hi, Mr. Weasley,” she says, closing her eyes contently as he presses a kiss to her head. “How are you?”

“Me? Fine,” he smiles, patting Darcy’s shoulder. “Molly was talking of you and Harry staying with us for Christmas. Has Ron mentioned it?”

“That’s very sweet,” Darcy replies awkwardly, exchanging a glance with Lupin before answering, “but I thought I’d stay here for Christmas. You know…it’s the first one Sirius and I will be able to have, and…er—sorry.”

“And a wonderful idea that is!”

Sirius appears from behind Darcy, smelling strongly of firewhisky, draping an arm around his goddaughter. Mr. Weasley smiles politely, retreating to his wife to help plate the ham. Sirius kisses Darcy hard on the temple, nearly choking her with his arm, but Darcy smiles all the same and rests her cheek on his shoulder.

“We’ll have to start decorating soon,” Darcy jokes, giving Gemma a sideways look across the room. Gemma catches her eye from her place at the table, deep in conversation with Kingsley and Emily, winking. “If it were up to me, this house would have been covered in decorations three months ago.”

“Let’s not be too hasty,” Lupin laughs, smiling down at Darcy and making her blush again. “We’ll have to find a decent tree. Darcy? You’re the expert, aren’t you?”

Darcy’s heart flutters. She wonders if it’s the holiday spirit that’s making Lupin be so nice and sweet to her, or if it has anything to do with the wine on his breath. “Professor Snape says I’m not to leave the house—Dumbledore’s rule. Perhaps Gemma would like to go with you.”

“Hm,” Lupin replies, taking a long drink from his cup. “We’ll see.”

“You know, we’ve spent Christmases together before,” Sirius tells her, and while the topic is clearly sore for him, there’s a small smile tugging at his lips, a smile that is remembering better days. Darcy raises her eyebrows at him, hoping he’ll elaborate. “I was there for your first one. You were just learning how to smile then, and you smiled right at me. That year I’d gotten you a little blanket. James was afraid you’d suffocate yourself with it at night, so he put it away until you were older.”

“My dad did that?” Darcy grins, her heart feeling much lighter than usual. The thought of her father fretting over her in a very nervous sort of way gives her joy.

“He was young and had no idea what he was doing,” Sirius says, letting out a bark of hoarse laughter. Lupin smiles fondly at him. “That stag in the headlights look he’d give when you’d start crying…Lily was the level-headed one, and I’ll give her a lot of credit for not only looking after you when she could, but for partially raising James, as well.”

“I think I was there for the second Christmas—or was it the third?” Lupin asks, screwing up his face in concentration. Cleanly shaven, Darcy is able to see the flush on his face due to drink quite well, and she finds it endearing. It doesn’t help, of course, that he keeps flashing her that easy smile of his—that cool smile that he knows Darcy loves so much. “It was the one at James’s house—Lily usually hosted, didn’t she?”

“That was the third one,” Sirius answers confidently, nodding his head, his arm around Darcy’s neck tightening. She snakes her arm around his thin waist, feeling utterly content. “And then we were all there for the first Christmas in their home at Godric’s Hollow. Remember what we got Darcy?”

“How could I ever forget? I can still picture James’s face very clearly when Darcy pulled a live kitten out of that box.”

“You got me a kitten for Christmas?” Darcy asks, temporarily shocked that Lupin had never revealed this small piece of information.

“Sirius wanted to get you a puppy,” Lupin explains, his grin widening as Sirius winks at him. “He even brought the idea to Lily, but what did she say, Padfoot?”

Unabashed, Sirius answers, “Lily said I was enough dog for all of them.”

“So you decided on a kitten?” Darcy laughs, thanking a smiling Gemma, who slips her a glass of wine. She’s even more thankful that Lupin doesn’t take a moment to scowl at either of them—Gemma for enabling Darcy’s drinking habits, or Darcy for actually drinking it.

“Ah, poor thing was abandoned outside Remus’,” Sirius continues, shrugging his shoulders. “And you know Remus—he couldn’t help but feed it, and then it kept coming back expecting food, so he suggested we make a gift of it. You don’t remember it?”

“No,” Darcy confesses, frowning. “I don’t remember a cat.”

“Probably mewling outside my old home now, waiting for me to bring it food,” Lupin jests, raising his eyebrows at Darcy, making her chuckle.

A few minutes later, Darcy wanders over to Gemma’s side, standing with Emily and Tonks, who are talking heatedly about Quidditch. Gemma turns slightly to face Darcy, grinning, her cheeks flushed. “Enjoying yourself, are you? And you wanted to _work_ …”

“Guess what I just found out?” Darcy asks, unable to conceal her grin. Gemma throws an arm around her shoulders, drinking from her cup, silently prompting Darcy to go on. “I had a cat when I was younger.”

“A cat?”

Darcy hums. “Sirius and Remus got it for me for Christmas.”

Gemma only laughs.

Dinner is a wonderful affair—so wonderful that it almost feels like Christmas has come early. Her heart and stomach full to bursting, she’s also glad everyone is polite to each other. Sirius and Mrs. Weasley make small talk across the table without the slightest sign of irritation or annoyance, and even Lupin and Emily seem to get along just fine.

“It was _so_ embarrassing,” Emily tells the table at large, once Lupin had brought up their meeting in the corridor on Darcy’s eighteenth birthday. “I was trashed, and I had yet to determine if you were more of a Snape regarding punishment, or more of a Lockhart.”

“Neither of those seem like great comparisons,” Lupin smirks. “Dare I ask what ‘more of a Lockhart’ means?”

“Lockhart caught us once,” Emily says, looking at Darcy, a sly smile creeping across her face. “Remember, Darcy? He let us off the hook completely, even after you vomited in front of him.”

“You wouldn’t have minded a detention from Lockhart, would you, Em?” Gemma asks from across the table, squeezed in between Mad-Eye and Sirius. She winks at Darcy as Emily blushes prettily.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Emily says quickly, returning to her food, her entire face bright red.

“I heard there was a Howler sent one year,” Sirius pipes up, looking down the long table. “True?”

“True,” Mrs. Weasley answers him, giving Darcy a very stern look. “Professor McGonagall was quite right to write to us. She shouldn’t have been drinking, and she especially shouldn’t have been wandering the corridors of Hogwarts drunk.”

“We used to throw parties in the common room, remember, Remus?” Sirius asks, leaning forward to look past Gemma and Mad-Eye and at a grinning Lupin. “If you’d known James, Molly, you wouldn’t be as surprised at Darcy’s behavior. Even Lily knew how to let her hair down every once in a while.”

“We would have done,” Gemma tells him. “The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws would have been fine, but for some odd reason, the Gryffindors didn’t seem very thrilled to have Slytherins in their own private common room.”

“They just didn’t know you,” Emily says consolingly. “I bet if they knew it was _you_ who supplied ninety percent of the alcohol, they would have been a bit more open to the idea of having you.”

“So you’re to blame for Darcy’s drinking habits?” Lupin asks, not unkindly.

“Not at all,” Gemma replies. “I only supplied the alcohol, like Em said. In truth, it was Emily who encouraged the bad behavior.”

“Enablers,” Darcy smiles. “The both of you.”

The three of them burst into laughter. Darcy thinks of her years at Hogwarts, all the parties they’d attended together, all the nights she and Emily had spent sick together in their dormitories, how many times Darcy and Gemma had shown up to classes hungover, while Emily was alert and sober and awake as ever. Darcy wishes Carla could be here—wishes Carla could see Darcy seated with her family, laughing across the table and eating a home cooked meal. She watches Lupin carefully, a small smile on her face as she takes in his scruffy appearance, flicking his neck every so often to get his hair out of his eyes. She can’t help but to wonder what Christmases at the Potters’ were like—or even at the Evans household. Had they all sat around a table, no more than kids, and just let the world stop for a moment to appreciate each other? To appreciate the family they’d become?

Lupin looks away from Mr. Weasley, locking eyes with Darcy as the conversation continues all around them. He grins toothily at her, raising his glass slightly as if to toast her, and then nods politely before engaging Mrs. Weasley in conversation. Part of Darcy wonders if being in such a good mood will make him want to kiss her—just once, just tonight, but Darcy decides she doesn’t want to ruin his mood at all, and thinks it best just to leave him be.

Despite it being Sirius’s house, Mrs.Weasley insists that Darcy not smoke inside the house, and no one protests when she offers to smoke on the front step, promising to be careful not to be seen. She waits, at least, for Gemma to leave for St Mungo’s, and Emily and Tonks leave together. Darcy tries not to watch Tonks say goodbye to Lupin, tries not to notice his cheeks turn pink when she kisses him on the cheek in farewell. As soon as the house clears and only a few guests are left, Darcy slips outside and inhales the crisp, wintery air.

Night has fallen in earnest, and after drinking quite a bit at dinner and being inside a warm and blazing kitchen, the air feels rather nice at first. The snow on the sidewalks is untouched and continues to fall, big flakes melting in her hair and on her eyelashes. The streetlights all around her make the snow look orange, and Darcy quickly notices the lack of sound—every so often she hears a car drive by in the distance, kicking up slush and melted snow with its tires. But there are no birds or insects or laughing children, just quiet.

To her delight, she’s not left outside alone for long. When the front door opens again, Darcy smiles, already holding out a cigarette for Sirius—but it’s not Sirius, it’s Lupin, a heavy traveling cloak over his shoulders, shivering as he steps out into the cold.

“Expecting someone else?” he asks cheekily, noticing the surprised look on her face.

He accepts the cigarette still held out between Darcy’s fingers and holds it between his lips, allowing her to light it for him while he stuffs his hands deep in his pockets.

“I’m still getting used to the image of you smoking,” Darcy says, looking him up and down. “It’s not good for you, you know.”

“Do I at least look cool doing it?” Lupin asks, taking a long and dramatic pull of the cigarette. He smiles when Darcy laughs. “Are you really going to stay here for Christmas?”

“Is that so surprising? Why wouldn’t I?” Darcy tilts her head slightly, shivering and shaking the snow off her head and shoulders. Lupin watches her with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle endearingly. “I have the chance to spend Christmas with Sirius for the first time in years.”

“What about Harry?” Lupin isn’t accusing or cold about it, but he does seem curious. “Don’t you want to spend Christmas with Harry at the Burrow?”

Darcy blushes, looking away and lighting another cigarette as she flicks the finished butt of the first one away. “Well…I mean, he didn’t miss me all that much when I was gone last year, did he?” she shrugs.

Lupin’s mouth twitches, but he quickly looks away, halting the smile from spreading on his face by putting the cigarette to his lips again.

“Will you be here for Christmas?” Darcy asks suddenly, looking up at him.

He laughs nervously, rubbing at the back of his neck, giving his head a shake and letting the excess snow fall off. “Is that…all right?”

Darcy blushes harder at the thought of it just being the three of them for Christmas. It’s both a comforting feeling and a very intimidating one. She sighs loudly and smiles, giving Lupin the most serious look she can muster. “I will be taking pictures, just as a heads up, and they _will_ be going into the album.”

“Then I’ll be sure to wear my smartest outfit and my biggest smile,” he chuckles, seemingly relieved by her answer. Looking her over quickly, Lupin furrows his brow. “Are you cold? Where’s your jacket, Darcy?”

“It’s not that bad out,” Darcy lies through chattering teeth, the tips of her fingers completely numb. “Besides, I’ll be done in a—”

But Lupin opens his cloak, wrapping Darcy in it and pulling her to him. It’s a very awkward few seconds as Darcy stumbles into his chest, and Lupin’s palm hovers awkwardly above her shoulder, as if unsure whether or not he should touch her. Finally, he does, looking down at her anxiously.

A warmth she hasn’t known for months surges through her—a warmth that only Lupin would be able to provide. Darcy’s heart leaps in her throat, and it’s no longer awkward, but a comfortable and familiar silence. Darcy offers him another cigarette, if only to keep Lupin outside longer, and he takes it eagerly. His hand squeezes tight on her arm, holding her to him as if letting go would mean death, and Darcy leans into him, nuzzling into his chest and feeling happier than she can remember feeling since the start of term.

* * *

“We’re fine, Umbridge is still in her office.” Darcy scans the Marauder’s Map quickly once more as she and Harry come to a halt in front of a long stretch of blank wall. Pulling her wand out and muttering, “Mischief managed…or _is_ it?” (Harry rolls his eyes), she folds the blank map back up and walks into the Room of Requirement through the door that has appeared seemingly from nowhere.

“Oh, my God…” Darcy stops abruptly, her eyes wide as she takes in the decorations hanging from the ceiling. She claps her hands over her mouth to keep herself from bursting out laughing, and turns to her wide-eyed and horrified brother.

Hundreds of baubles have been hung, each bearing Harry’s face and HAVE A VERY HARRY CHRISTMAS! Harry turns slowly to look at Darcy, a dangerous look on his face. “Don’t—” he begins, but Darcy can’t hold back her laughter anymore, and he flushes at once. “Just…shut up and help me get these down, would you?”

“Did Dobby do this?” Darcy asks, Summoning one of the baubles down and looking at it with a slight frown. “How come he didn’t make any with my face?”

“Wish he would’ve,” Harry grumbles, following Darcy’s lead and Summoning a few down at a time. “Not only would they have been much prettier, but it would’ve saved me a lot of embarrassment.”

“Aw, Harry,” Darcy grins, blushing. “You think I’m pretty?” She doesn’t expect a response. “Save these—we could use them for our own Christmas tree one day.”

“No,” Harry answers exasperatedly. “Never, _please_.”

The last D.A. meeting of the term is somehow more exciting than the last few they’ve had. Perhaps it’s the buzz of chatter that persists—students talking about their plans for Christmas; Ginny, Fred, and George expressing their disappointment that Darcy won’t be joining them for the holidays; Zacharias Smith talking loudly about how he thinks Darcy should have given him a better grade on his Potions essay (George hits him with a Jelly-Legs Jinx after overhearing him, and then thanks Darcy politely for the E she had given him on his own essay).

Partnered with Neville yet again, Darcy doesn’t fight back when they work at Stunning. Neville’s Stunning spells are weak, and once he Stuns someone that isn’t Darcy. But after a while, Neville does Stun Darcy. She feels the spell hit her square in the chest, and the next moment, Hermione’s face is above her own, looking worried. Neville is at Hermione’s shoulder, his face drained of all color.

“I’m sorry, Darcy!” he squeaks, offering Darcy a hand up.

She takes his hand, but still needs Hermione to help her to her feet. Darcy rubs the back of her head, groaning. “That was good, Neville,” she sighs, her head pounding. “Just…give me a second before we go again.”

As everyone files out rather reluctantly, muttering “Happy Christmas” to Harry and Darcy, she notices Cho Chang puttering around—not looking completely miserable as always, but on the verge of tears most definitely. When Harry approaches her, Darcy shuffles everyone else out, allowing them some privacy.

She’s very glad to slide into bed that night, her head still hurting something awful. Darcy doesn’t even bother with the bottle of firewhiskey on her bedside table, drifting off to sleep almost immediately.

It feels she’s only been asleep for five minutes when someone’s rough hand is clamped around her arm, shaking her awake. She opens her eyes, drowsy, and jumps when she sees Snape standing beside her, fully dressed despite the late hour.

“What are you doing here?” she snaps, reaching for her watch on the nightstand and checking it. “Are you watching me sleep? Do you have any idea what the word privacy means?”

When Snape answers, it’s in a rather hurried voice. His fingers release her arm. “I’ve been knocking on your door for five minutes. What’ve you been doing?”

Darcy sits up, a feeling of dread creeping over her. Why is Snape here so late, waking her? “I’m a heavy sleeper,” she hisses back, afraid to ask what’s happened, but she can’t help herself. “Where’s Harry? What’s happened?”

“Arthur Weasley’s been attacked—”

“What?”

Her heart stops, and Snape must see something in her face, for he adds quickly, “He’s alive. The Headmaster is going to bring you, your brother, and the Weasleys to Grimmauld Place, but we need to move quickly.”

Darcy knows that by _quickly_ , he really means _before Umbridge catches us_. Trembling very violently, Darcy gets out of bed, throws a few things into her weekend bag, and without changing out of her pajamas, she allows Snape to lead her from the room. A thousand questions are blazing through her head, but her mouth doesn’t work and she isn’t sure it’s safe enough to ask questions outloud in the corridor.

_Who attacked him? How did they find out? When did it happen? What was he doing? Where was he? Is he going to live? If he’s not, how much time is left? Is there time for me to thank him for what he and his family have done for me and Harry?_

Instinctively, Darcy reaches out in the dark, grabbing onto Snape’s forearm and digging her nails anxiously into his sleeve. At once, something like a strangled cry mixed with a sigh escapes his lips, and Darcy pulls her hand away quickly, not having realized she’d been holding onto his branded arm.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice shaky. Darcy wraps her arms around herself protectively. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s all right,” he murmurs, glancing around, as if embarrassed to be seen by her. Darcy imagines it’s more to check if anyone is watching. Snape puts a hand on her back, urging her along the corridors faster. “Quickly, now.”

“Professor,” she begins again breathlessly, “what’s happened?”

“You will find out soon enough.”

And in no time at all, Darcy and Snape are nearly running up the spinning spiral staircase to Dumbledore’s office, and Snape opens the door with some force, leading Darcy inside. The Weasleys are all huddled around a glowing old kettle, along with Harry, Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall. Harry’s frightened expression softens for a moment at the sight of his sister, and her heart swells with love as he hurries over to her, allowing himself to be swept up in her arms.

“Darcy, your shoulder—” he croaks, aligning his fingers with the raised scars clearly visible.

Darcy blushes. She’d forgotten they were there and visible in her haste to pack. “It’s fine. Are you all right?”

“Are you ready, Darcy? We must move quickly,” Dumbledore says, a note of impatience in his voice.

Darcy nods, and she joins the party heading for Grimmauld Place, reaching between her brother and Fred, one finger on the Portkey and another on Harry’s back. She looks over her shoulder once before the Portkey takes her with a jerk behind her navel—she doesn’t really know why she does it, but when her eyes meet Snape’s, she sees something change in them, and there is something she’s never seen in those cold, black eyes before—something that looks, to Darcy, like sympathy. 


	34. Chapter 34

There’s only one plate.

That’s the first thing she notices as the Portkey brings them all to Sirius’s kitchen. Surely if Lupin or Gemma were here, they’d have eaten dinner with him? But why would Gemma be at Grimmauld Place for dinner on a night Darcy isn’t supposed to be there? As if doused with icy cold water, fear floods her. Where is Lupin, anyway? Does he run the risk of being attacked, too? Could she handle someone else being attacked? Surely if anything happened to Lupin, she would die of a broken heart.

Perhaps the shock hasn’t settled in quite yet. She doesn’t really know what’s happening anyway, only that Snape—of all people—had woken her from a deep sleep to give her such frightening news, had ushered her with such haste to Dumbledore’s office with hardly an explanation. She feels oddly distanced from everyone else, as if she isn’t really there, as if she’s intruding on something private and intimate, something shameful she shouldn’t have seen. To feel so disconnected from everyone is a strange feeling, considering she’d wanted nothing but closeness for the past few months. But she feels too ashamed of herself to admit her own feeling towards the situation—she’s too ashamed to cry for this man who is not her father, when his own children are here and could, together, cry much more genuine and honest and meaningful tears than she could. How stupid she would seem to cry tears now in front of children who would miss their father infinitely more than Darcy ever could—children who love their father more than Darcy could ever know.

Darcy isn’t sure how she does it—or doesn’t do it. She just tells herself— _I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry like some stupid crybaby_ —and she doesn’t. Not that anyone really notices. They’re all looking at Harry, expecting an explanation from the stuttering and sweating mess that is her little brother. Glasses slightly askew, dark hair sticking up all over, normally thin face looking gaunt and weary and frightened all at once. Though she barely hears him when he finally speaks, she understands well enough—as much as she can, anyway, given the limited amount of information Harry can offer them.

What happened? I had a dream. What happened in the dream? A snake had attacked Mr. Weasley. Whose snake? I don’t know. What was he doing? I don’t know. What’s happened to him? He’s at St Mungo’s, likely under Gemma’s care at the request of Dumbledore and whatever Healer she’s assisting tonight. What’s his condition? I don’t know. How did you see this? From above; I don’t know. Though Darcy catches Harry’s eye when he says that, and he seems to quail under her gaze, as if she’s accusing him of something. She wants to hold him to her again, to silently tell him that she loves him, to silently tell him that everything will be okay, regardless or not of whether they actually are.

Darcy wants to be with them, with the Weasleys—truly, she does. But the uncomfortable feeling of not belonging drives her away, the uncomfortable feeling of knowing her main source of comfort is leagues away at Hogwarts, and she hadn’t even thanked him for waking her. With Sirius too busy attempting to console the children— _am I still a child really, too?_ —and Harry needing to be with his best friend, Darcy slinks off, knowing there is nothing else to do but wait. And this time, she will have no one to hold her like a stupid little girl, no one to kiss her tears, no one to murmur words of comfort into her skin. How long will it be until Lupin hears of what’s happened? How long will it be until he arrives back at Grimmauld Place—that is, if he hasn’t been attacked, as well. How long will it be until Gemma returns with news of Mr. Weasley, until she is able to slip into bed beside Darcy and sleep for days?

How could something like this have happened so abruptly, without any warning, without any sign that anything was going to go wrong? _Something always goes wrong_ , she thinks to herself. One moment she was laughing with Harry about the baubles—childish laughter that they hadn’t done in what seemed a very long time—and then she was being properly Stunned by Neville for the first time, and then Snape was waking her. _I disappeared in the middle of the night, along with Harry and all the Weasleys_. She hopes Snape stops by sometime over term to tell her what Umbridge had said or done after finding out.

Darcy lays in bed for what seems like a very long time, flipping through her photo album. She’s suddenly very aware of how little the Weasleys are in it. Hermione is in quite a few pictures from last year, whether it be with her head in Gemma’s lap or the photo of she and Darcy before the Yule Ball. But Ron is missing in many of them, and it makes her feel sad because Ron is a very sweet boy despite his crass nature sometimes, and Darcy feels not adding him to her album is a mistake. She also feels that not having a single picture of she and Mr. Weasley is a large mistake. Years from now, when she opens this book to show her own children, she wants at least one photograph of them, just to be able to tell her children— _this is the first man who ever held me after waking from a nightmare, the first man to do something like that after ten years of waiting, the first man I can ever remember treating me so kindly, in the way I had craved since dad’s death._

She flips the page, her eyes drawn to a photograph of her an Lupin, taken—presumably—by Gemma. There’s a smile on his face—a tired one, but the same toothy grin he’d always flash Darcy when she laughed. She’s laughing in the picture, seated beside him on the sofa, her eyes closed and her head thrown back and her mouth wide open.

_And there is the man I loved so much_ , she pictures herself telling her children. _I had never known anyone to understand me so well, to understand without me having to speak, to know the depths of my heartbreak and sadness and grief and hurting. Because he understood it, too._

It’s then that her door opens. Darcy snaps shut the photo album, but it’s only Sirius, with an unopened bottle of butterbeer. “Hey, kid,” he says, closing the door behind him. Darcy draws her knees up to her chest, setting the heavy, leather-bound book aside and letting Sirius sit on the bed with her. “What are you doing up here?”

“Hiding,” she answers softly, not bothering to lie. “When the shock finally sets in, I’d rather not be down there.”

Sirius looks at her for a long time—the same way Lupin might while considering whether or not to take her at her word. “Okay.”

But he doesn’t move to leave, which fills Darcy with indescribable comfort. “How did Harry know?” she whispers, suddenly very afraid again.

“I…” Sirius hesitates, dragging a hand through his hair and looking down at the blankets. He picks distractedly at the fuzz accumulating on it. “I shouldn’t say anything yet, not knowing myself. I would hate to leave you worrying about something that may not be true.”

“What’s happening to my brother?”

“I don’t know, Darcy,” Sirius says again, this time more firmly, as if he’s begging her to stop asking.

“Then what _do_ you know?” Darcy asks incredulously, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. Perhaps she’s asked it too harshly, and she immediately regrets it.

Anger flashes in Sirius’s hardened eyes for a moment. “I know that Molly is likely at St Mungo’s by now, and she’ll send word as soon as she can.”

“That’s nothing,” she hisses, and this time Darcy does nothing to hide her frustration. “When is Remus coming back?”

Sirius blinks in surprise, but then snarls at her, “Remus won’t tell you anymore than I have.”

“Maybe not, but at least Remus recognizes that I’m not five anymore,” she snaps back. “At least he treats me like I’m an adult.”

“Yes,” Sirius says, venom dripping from his tone. He has suddenly, within seconds, become the man Darcy met in the Shrieking Shack again—unfamiliar and cold, a different man than she knows he truly is. His gray eyes are glazed over, empty of sympathy now. It hurts her. “I’m sure Remus knows very well that you’re not a child, isn’t he?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know very well what I mean. The messing around, the sleeping together. The moment he saw you at Hogwarts again, he saw you as a woman, didn’t he?”

There’s a beat—a single beat in which Darcy feels the deep love between them fracture (or perhaps it’s just her heart breaking), and that hurts worse than anything. “Get out,” she whispers. “Get out now.”

Sirius looks for a moment very apologetic, but Darcy can’t look at him. If he speaks again, she thinks she might break down into sobs. But she’s saved—saved from the embarrassment by Harry entering the room, observing the scene, and swallowing hard. Darcy and Sirius both look at him with very different expressions—Darcy softens immediately, a small smile breaking across her face at the sight of him, while Sirius looks impatient and clearly cross that they’d been interrupted.

“Darcy,” Harry says awkwardly, stepping into her bedroom. “Could I talk to you for a minute? Er—alone?”

“Sure,” she says, giving Sirius a sharp look that silently tells him to leave. He does, closing the door loudly behind him and nearly stomping down the stairs. “What’s up, Harry? How’s everyone?”

“Falling asleep,” Harry replies, sitting down where Sirius had just been. He shifts, getting more comfortable, and Darcy leans forward to kiss his forehead. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Wary, Darcy nods.

There is pain in Harry’s face, guilt—a feeling she’s well familiar with. “My dream—or vision—or whatever it was,” he begins. “I didn’t see it from above, or from the side, or whatever. It was— _I_ was the snake. I attacked Mr. Weasley.”

Darcy pauses, but then shakes her head. “That’s impossible, Harry. You were in your bed, weren’t you? You didn’t attack anyone—Ron would have realized if you’d gone, wouldn’t he have?” When Harry shrugs, reluctant to answer, she continues. “Whatever happened to Mr. Weasley, you did not do it. You did not attack him, the snake did. You would never do that.”

“That’s not it, though,” Harry frowns, his eyes shining. Darcy reaches out, and though he hesitates, he does fall into her at last, burying his face in her shoulder. Darcy combs the back of his dark hair with her fingers, giving him time to gather his thoughts. “When we were in Dumbledore’s office—when we were all around the Portkey, he looked at me and I just—I wanted to attack him. My scar hurt so badly and it was like I was the snake again.”

“But you didn’t,” Darcy whispers, resting her cheek atop his head. “You didn’t attack him, and you’re not a snake. You’re Harry—and I know you would never attack anyone, especially Dumbledore.”

Harry lifts his head from Darcy’s shoulder, and she pretends not to notice the tears he’s left behind on her skin and scars. “Darcy—”

Darcy cups one of his cheeks, brushing his tears away with one of her long thumbs. “Harry, whatever it is,” she tells him, and when Harry tries to look away, Darcy holds his face steady to keep him looking at her, “we’ll handle it. We always do.”

Green eyes misty in the bad lighting, Harry only nods.

Darcy keeps herself locked in her room, unable to fall asleep, afraid to fall asleep and succumb to nightmares, afraid that if she wakes up screaming, she will be alone with no one to comfort her. Where are the tears? Where is the overwhelming wave of grief and sadness, the anger at the thought that life might try and take someone else away from her? All she can feel is a slight sense of panic, muffled by confusion, and blanketed by fear. Is it better to be afraid than hurt, or is it worse?

Eventually, Darcy does fall asleep, waking only when the sun shines just right through the window and catches her full in the face. She hadn’t even had a nightmare, though being so exhausted, it doesn’t surprise her really all that much. She’s only awake for a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling and rubbing furiously at her tired eyes when someone knocks on the door.

“Come in,” she rasps, propping herself on an elbow and clearing her throat as the door opens.

Lupin’s standing in the threshold, looking paler than usual, but composed all the same. He’s carrying a tray with a plate on it and a steaming mug of what smells like coffee. It’s a sweet gesture, and Darcy’s very grateful when he puts the modest breakfast of toast and eggs and bacon on her desk, but her appetite is far gone, and the thought of eating makes her feel sick to her stomach. She sits up in bed, drawing her knees to her chest, and insisting that Lupin sit at the foot of the bed.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he says, looking her over. “Sirius said Molly has been to see Arthur already. She says he’s going to be all right. We’re going to escort you all for a visit later today.”

Darcy resents the way he says _you all_ as if she’s included with the other children. She hates more the way she feels like a child now, so small and so helpless, so in need of a pair of arms around her to help her fall back asleep. She can’t even find words to say, can’t formulate a response that would even sound half-coherent. And yet, Darcy finds that she doesn’t have to speak at all, because Lupin gives her an appraising look for a moment and she knows that he understands. It’s this that makes her fall into him and his arms hold her tight to his chest, and it’s this that makes the tears flow from her eyes so quickly and heavily it’s as if a faucet has been turned on. The feeling of his unshaven cheek against her forehead is warm and grounding, the steady drumbeat of his heart the only sound in the world, being wrapped in his arms again is the safest place she’s ever known—a home, a home she has never known, a home that is not Grimmauld Place or Hogwarts or Privet Drive or her parents’ home that she hardly remembers or even Lupin’s small, tumbledown yet endearing and cozy cottage.

“Darcy, it’s all right,” he whispers soothingly, smoothing back her hair with a palm, a few loose strands sticking to her wet face. “It’s all right now…he’s going to be all right. Gemma’s looking after him.”

Darcy silently curses him for knowing her so well, for knowing that bringing up this last point would bring her immense comfort. Gemma would never let anything happen to Mr. Weasley—she’d alert a Healer to the slightest abnormality, she’d keep a close eye on him.

Wanting to show her appreciation for his words of comfort is difficult while racked with sobs, unable to speak or even think of what she might say. She wonders, incredibly, if he’s feeling lonely—if anyone has thrown their arms around his neck and held him, if anyone has given his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. She wonders if it is a burden for him to be the comforter, to always have to run to Darcy at the slightest inconvenience. The thought makes her cry harder, but she slips her arms around his neck and they hold each other for a little while, faces buried in each other’s shoulders, cheeks wet with tears.

* * *

Darcy is quiet throughout the ride on the Underground to St Mungo’s. Tonks tries to make friendly conversation with her, but Darcy only sidles up closer to Lupin, not wanting to talk. Surrounded by the Weasleys—this time with Mrs. Weasley in tow—and with Harry at her side, Darcy can’t dispel that feeling of discomfort, that she shouldn’t even be going because, after all, Mr. Weasley isn’t even her family. Even as Tonks chatters in her ear and Darcy wishes she would just shut up, Darcy feels bad, her anger at Tonks’s behavior around Lupin is the main reason for this. She’d be much more grateful if Hermione was the one jabbering away in her ear, much more grateful if it was Gemma.

When they reach the heart of London, Mad-Eye leads them off the Underground, a bowler hat pulled down over his magical eye, which Darcy is sure is spinning everywhere in that sickening sort of way. Darcy trails behind, only alone for a few moments until Lupin falls back to walk with her, his hands deep in his pockets, his elbow brushing hers every so often.

She’s so nervous that all she can think about to vomiting on the sidewalk right at her feet, and the bile burning her throat nearly forces her too. She doesn’t want to think about the condition that Mr. Weasley is in, doesn’t want to think about how close he had come to dying.

Yet part of her is anxious about entering St Mungo’s. For a long time now it seems, Gemma has been disappearing for shifts here, as if it’s another life Darcy knows nothing about. She had never thought before what a magical hospital might look like—not once had she ever asked Gemma what the hospital was like, or what to expect upon entering, or even where the hospital is in general. Not that she really has a fully formed idea in her mind, but Darcy had never expected that St Mungo’s would use a rundown old department store as its entrance, and when Darcy watches Tonks lean close to the glass and speak in an undertone to a mannequin, Darcy looks up at Lupin curiously.

Lupin points back to Tonks, a small smile on his face, and Darcy watches as she disappears through the window, just as she would at Platform 9¾ through the bricks. One after the other, people follow Tonks’ lead, stepping through the glass, ignored by the oblivious Muggles walking with their heads bowed around them. When at last it’s just Darcy and Lupin (who waits patiently for Darcy to gather the courage to step through), she begins to have second thoughts.

“Maybe I should go back,” she says quickly, wrapping her arms around herself and taking a step back from the department store. “Mr. Weasley probably doesn’t even want to see me—”

“Come on, Darcy, you’re being ridiculous,” Lupin chuckles, taking her hand and attempting to pull her into St Mungo’s. “Of course he wants to see you. Come—step inside, now.”

“Maybe it should just be family—please, will you just take me home?”

“No, I’m not taking you home. Come on, my love, come inside. We can at least see Gemma while she’s here. I’m sure she would love to see you.”

Darcy hesitates, but finally nods and allows Lupin to lead her through the glass and into a reception room. Mrs. Weasley, surrounded by the others, is already in line at the welcome desk, reading the sign indicating the correct wards for the correct illnesses and injuries. Darcy takes a moment to look around, still holding Lupin’s hand tight, grateful that he does nothing to shake her off.

The reception area is packed with patients—people with steam coming out of their ears, plant-like tentacles erupting from their heads, people who look close to death with their pale faces and shadowy eyes and the groans escaping their lips. Darcy shudders at a few that look to have been badly Transfigured, with half their face normal and the other half sloughing off, mixed with some inanimate object (Darcy guesses a fruitcake judging by the look of the skin on his cheek).

When Mrs. Weasley finishes talking to the witch at the welcome desk, she beckons for Darcy and Lupin to follow. Led to the first floor, they’re jostled around by Healers and medi-witches and -wizards hurrying up and down the ward, clipboards floating at their shoulder and quills scribbling furiously as they speak. No one really pays them any mind, seemingly in quite a hurry, flitting in and out of rooms, tracking down Healers, telling off the portraits of past Healers as they shout outdated advice at everyone.

Tonks steps back at the entrance to Mr. Weasley’s ward to allow the family to go in first, and while Darcy is perfectly fine standing at Lupin’s side, being comforted by the brushing of his thumb over the back of her hand as they hold hands loosely, Mrs. Weasley nearly drags her inside, separating her from Lupin with almost too much pleasure.

There are only three patients inside, including Mr. Weasley. He’s awake, sitting upright and grinning at his family now surrounding his bed; another woman across the other side of the ward is fast asleep; a young girl with dark hair that brushes her shoulders is bent over the man in the bed beside Mr. Weasley, peeking under some bandages and nodding in approval.

“Gemma,” Darcy breathes, a smile breaking onto her face—a real smile, the first one since the D.A. meeting just yesterday. _Was that just yesterday_?

Gemma stands up straight at the sound of Darcy’s voice and turns around quickly, throwing her arms around Darcy’s neck. The man she’d been tending to looks annoyed at the interruption, but lays back on his pillow and closes his eyes as if trying to block them out completely. When Darcy holds Gemma out to examine her, she feels instantly guilty. While Gemma seems very buoyant and in good spirits, there are shadows under her heavy-looking eyes and her smile isn’t as bright as usual.

“How long have you been working?”

“Since last night. I was only here for a few hours before one of the Healers came running to get me, saying a patient had come and I was instructed to be on the case,” Gemma explains. “You’ve no idea how shocked I was to see it was Mr. Weasley.”

“What happened?” Darcy asks quietly, lowering her voice. “Sirius wouldn’t tell me anything. Harry said he had a dream of a snake attacking Mr. Weasley, and Dumbledore has us all take a Portkey back home, but—”

At this, Gemma shifts uncomfortably on her feet, her smile fading. “Listen, it’s not my place to tell. It was a snake—Harry had the right of it,” she whispers, looking apologetic, but Darcy’s just glad she doesn’t question anything. “But he’s doing all right. The Healer is working on finding an antidote for the venom that in the fangs, and as long as he takes his Blood-Replenishing Potion, he’ll be all right until then.” She squeezes Darcy’s shoulder and smiles again. “I have a few more patients to check on, and then my shifts over. I can come home with you guys. Is Lupin out there?” Gemma asks, nodding over her shoulder at the closed ward door.

“Yeah,” Darcy answers. “Him, Tonks, and Mad-Eye.”

“All right, I’ll catch up with you in a little bit. Meet you back here.”

Gemma disappears from the ward, and Darcy moves closer to Mr. Weasley. He seems eager to seize onto the opportunity at hand as Fred and George question him relentlessly about the attack, instead avoiding answering by taking Darcy’s hand and drawing her closer, kissing her cheek. “Darcy, darling, how are you?”

“It’s kind of you to ask while you’re lying in a hospital bed,” Darcy says weakly, but smiling all the same, eyeing the thick and fresh bandages on his shoulder and arm. She frowns, but quickly rearranges her features, not wanting to seem distressed in front of everyone. “You seem well.”

“As well as I can be,” he answers. “Gemma’s been very helpful. You cannot believe how happy I was to see she was going to be the medi-witch tending to me. The Healer is fantastic, as well.”

“She’s very good, isn’t she?” Darcy replies, sitting in an empty chair that Mr. Weasley conjures for her with his good arm. “She loves what she does.”

Mr. Weasley clears his throat and leans in closer to Darcy. The rest of the family and Harry listens hard, clearly expecting top secret information. “That man over there—poor boy just got bitten by a werewolf, but Gemma’s been telling him all about the potion she’s developed, and it seems to have raised his spirits some. Though, if you ask me, I think he’s just sweet on her. Always making up some excuse to have her tending to him, or making something up to keep her in here longer.”

To Darcy’s surprise, this piece of information makes her chuckle. They don’t stay long before Mrs. Weasley has them reluctantly switch off with Tonks, Mad-Eye, and Lupin, by which time Gemma has come back. She slips into the ward behind Lupin, promising Darcy she’ll do one more overall check of Mr. Weasley and they can all go home.

“Can you believe he won’t tell us anything?” Fred asks incredulously.

“You should be thankful your father’s still alive,” Darcy says, but Fred and George only glower at her. She’s too used to the disappointing silence to have expected Mr. Weasley to tell them anything about the attack.

“Then if you’re not interesting in listening…” George tells her, holding out five Extendable Ears for his twin, Ron, Ginny, and Harry. “Perhaps you’d better wait for us by the front door, Darcy.”

“Shut up,” Darcy snaps, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I didn’t bring one for you,” George frowns. “I thought, if anything, they’d tell you. Sorry, Darce.”

“You can share with me,” Harry says quickly.

Darcy lets him put the string of the Extendable Ear up to the both of their ears, and she waits impatiently as the ears snake their way beneath the door.

“...they couldn’t find the snake anywhere,” comes Tonks’ voice. “It’s like it vanished as soon as it attacked you, Arthur.”

“He probably sent it as a lookout,” Mad-Eye replies gruffly. “If Arthur hadn’t been there, the snake might have had more time to look around…see what he’s up against. Potter says he saw it all happen?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Weasley answers, and she sounds rather wary and uncomfortable about it. Darcy tries to listen closer, nearly cheek to cheek with Harry. “It almost seems as if Dumbledore was waiting for something like this to happen…I spoke to him this morning, and he sounded very worried.”

“Darcy needs to be told something,” Lupin sighs, and Darcy’s heart flutters. “She’s getting restless being kept in the dark.”

“I don’t care what your history is with that girl, Remus,” Mad-Eye says again, and there’s a bite of impatience in his tone. “Dumbledore told you he doesn’t want her knowing. It’s my understanding that there’s very little Darcy and her brother don’t tell each other, and if Potter’s seeing things through You-Know-Who’s snake—if he is possessing him, that could lead to trouble with Darcy. Last thing we need is an attack on that girl, or for her to be taken, or for her to spill Order secrets to Harry, not realizing…You-Know-Who already knows he would do anything for Darcy, and I’m not going to put the girl in more danger.”

Harry rips the string away from his ear, looking at Darcy with the saddest, most horrified look she’s ever seen—not into her face, but at a spot a few inches above her. He looks away quickly. “Harry…” she whispers, touching his cheek to turn his face towards her. “Harry, look at me…”

But Harry won’t meet her eyes anymore. 


	35. Chapter 35

Holding up her hand to knock on the door, Darcy freezes, thinking better of it. Close to two o’clock in the morning, the house is completely silent, everyone having gone to bed after the exhausting events of the previous day and night. Darcy had tried hours ago, long after Harry had shut himself in his room, refusing to open the door for Darcy, refusing to talk to her, to look at her, to acknowledge her. But her mind had been too full to sleep, too full to think. All she had wanted was to sleep next to someone, for Gemma had gone back to St Mungo’s just over an hour ago, and the only other person in the house she feels comfortable sleeping with is Lupin.

Afraid that her knocking would sound like a bomb going off in the still and silent house (and more afraid it would either wake Sirius or Mrs. Black’s portrait), Darcy lowers her hand. She could just walk in and slip under the blankets beside him, but would he even want her there to begin with? Would the five seconds of comfort be worth the shame of being kicked out of his bed? Yet somehow, Darcy doesn’t think he would kick her out. He might give his resigned sigh the way he does before doing something he shouldn’t be doing—for instance, kissing her, holding her, fucking her, touching her. The same resigned sigh that, whenever Darcy hears it, reminds her he still loves her.

Boldly, in desperate need of his arms around her, Darcy glances around to make sure the bedroom doors are still shut before placing a hand on the doorknob and turning it. It isn’t locked. Does he always sleep with the door unlocked, or did he purposefully leave it unlocked? Darcy feels that thought gives her a lot more credit than she’s due, but she pushes the door open anyway and is thankful it doesn’t creak.

She closes the door, expecting him to wake, but he doesn’t stir. Lupin’s back is to her, awash in the light of the half-moon filtering through the grimy window, the light making his light skin look an eerie white color, the scars very pink in contrast. The blanket is pulled up to his waist, and Darcy desperately hopes he’s wearing clothes to keep this from being the most shameful and humiliating thing she’s ever done in her life. Her heart hammering so loudly she’s surprised the entire house doesn’t hear it, Darcy slides under the blanket with him and lets her fingertips brush against his back.

“Is that you, Darcy?”

“Expecting someone else?” she whispers back, pulling her trembling hand away, halfway out of the bed already, mentally kicking herself, hating herself.

“Kreacher, maybe,” Lupin answers sleepily without even moving. “I normally sleep with the door locked to keep him out. Though, I’m sure his touch wouldn’t have been nearly as gentle.”

Darcy’s breath hitches as these words. Despite everything, the corners of her lips turn slightly upwards.

“Are you smiling?” he asks, as if he can see her through the back of his head.

“A little.”

“It’s good to know you still remember how,” Lupin teases, his tone very gentle, as if afraid his jest may insult her. He sounds younger now, even half asleep. She’s always liked him like this, his playful banter and easy humor.

“Roll over so I can look at you,” Darcy breathes, hardly able to catch her breath.

He does without hesitation, and Darcy smiles wider. His hair looks shaggier after sleeping on it, falling into his half-open eyes that look almost black in the dark room. Lupin looks her in the eyes as Darcy’s own rove over his face, down his neck to admire his throat, her favorite place to kiss him, his broad shoulders, seemingly the only place where the muscle stores, and then back up to his eyes. Their heads on two different pillows, Darcy yearns to be closer—close enough that she can feel his breath on her lips—but she doesn’t move. The sight of him looking so beautiful and so vulnerable and so tired makes Darcy’s heart both race and break. _He was mine once_ , she thinks, _I was the luckiest woman in the world._

“I couldn’t sleep,” she confesses quietly. “I needed to see you.”

“Why?”

Darcy blinks, frowning, unable to look away from him. “Because you comfort me.”

Lupin chuckles softly, and Darcy can see the blush on his cheeks even in the darkness. “No,” he says. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

She blushes, but still doesn’t look away. To look away would admit shame, and she does not feel ashamed for admitting it to him. “Everything happened so quickly,” Darcy replies, unable to tell him the main thing that’s bothering her due to the fact he would know she’d been eavesdropping at St Mungo’s. But at least she can tell him this. “I couldn’t stop thinking—how quickly could I lose someone? I could go to sleep happy, only to be woken with the news that Harry is dead, or Sirius—or you. What if I leave one Sunday and wake the next morning to find you’ve been killed?”

“No one’s died,” Lupin whispers, moving closer to her and by no means trying to hide it. He places a hand upon her cheek, brushing her hair back. “Nothing is going to happen to Harry, or Sirius, or me.”

“You can’t promise that,” Darcy rasps, tears prickling in her eyes. _Don’t cry, stupid girl. Don’t cry_. “If anything happened to you—to any of you—”

“Nothing will happen to us,” he repeats, and Darcy has a feeling he knows it’s an empty promise just as much as she does. “Darcy, love, look at me.”

It’s too embarrassing to look him in the eyes and cry. She closes them tight, brushing Lupin’s hand off her face. “I’m sorry,” she cries, and his fingers grip her chin, lifting her face again. Darcy’s eyes flutter open. “I’m sorry—I didn’t come here to cry.”

“Then what did you come here for?” he asks, eyebrows knitting together. “I left my door unlocked for you. If I didn’t want you here, seeking my comfort, I’d have kept it locked. Don’t be embarrassed to cry, my love.” Lupin smiles at her then, a smile Darcy doesn’t return.

“You’re doing it to be nice to me, keeping your door unlocked for me like I’m a child who’s had a nightmare,” she says, blushing furiously.

Lupin frowns. “I don’t encourage everyone who needs comforting into my bed, you know. That would be crude and rather insensitive,” he tells her, his smile flickering. “I kept the door open because I hoped you would come here. I kept the door open because I hoped you would seek comfort from _me_.”

Darcy wipes her eyes. “Why are you so nice to me?”

“Because you have been nice to me.”

This isn’t the answer she’d hoped for. Her stomach rolls violently.

“When I heard about Arthur, I couldn’t stop thinking—what if it had been you? You were sleeping when I came back, but I had to see you, to look at you, just to make sure you were all right. And when we saw Arthur today, again I—I couldn’t stop thinking, what if that was you?” Lupin’s jaw clenches suddenly. “Maybe I left the door open tonight wishing you would come to comfort me, as well.”

“I’m doing a terrible job, aren’t I?” she asks, a feeble attempt at a joke.

“No,” he says. “Just having you here is enough. Crying or sleeping or, preferably, laughing—as long as you’re here.”

Darcy surveys his face again. She wants to say she feels the same—that just sleeping beside him is more than she could ask for, that she didn’t even come here with the intention of kissing him or fucking him or anything other than just being with him—but it’s hard to get the words out. “Can I stay, then?”

“Yes,” Lupin murmurs. “You can stay.”

“I’m tired.”

“Get some sleep, kitten.”

“I’m sorry if I have a nightmare.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“Just wake me up, all right?”

Lupin pauses, exasperated. “This isn’t my first time sleeping next to you, Darcy.”

They both shift for a moment, getting more comfortable, and Darcy picks his wand up off the nightstand to lock the door at the terrible thought of Kreacher wandering in. Lupin’s arm snakes around her, holding her close, his face buried in her left shoulder blade, his breath hot against the thin fabric of her shirt. With their legs twined together, fingers loosely threaded, Darcy feels so happy, so content, so at peace, that she could die.

* * *

Lupin lets Darcy sleep in his bed most of the afternoon. She wakes a few times throughout the morning, listening to the shuffling of guests from downstairs, Sirius singing Christmas carols, the whispered argument on the other side of the door between Lupin and Sirius, or someone running up the stairs before falling asleep again.

Now that she’s alone again, she starts to think again about what had been said at St Mungo’s about Voldemort possessing Harry—getting information through Darcy. _This is why I’ve been kept in the dark_ , she realizes, but she isn’t sure if she’s still mad about being excluded or not. She can’t argue their reasoning—Darcy could potentially put everyone’s safety at risk by exposing their Headquarters, but she’s safe at Hogwarts—no one will take her or kill her at Hogwarts.

And a feeling of shock and dread makes her sit up quickly, throwing the blankets off her, her heart racing. If Voldemort is possessing Harry, wouldn’t he already know these things? Could he read Harry’s thoughts? Know the identities of each member of the Order? Know Darcy’s deepest desires and hurts because she’d simply told him?

_If Harry must leave, then I’m going to_ , Darcy tells herself firmly. _As long as everyone else is safe, then I don’t care what happens to me._

_No, that’s ridiculous, if Harry was a danger, Dumbledore would have taken him away from here, would have done something_. This thought makes her feel better. She settles back against the pillow and falls asleep again.

The next time she wakes, she retreats to her own bedroom for a little while, showers while everyone’s still downstairs, and is brushing her still sopping wet hair when Lupin sneaks into her bedroom. “You all right?” he asks, his tone so casual that it startles Darcy for a moment.

“I’m fine,” she lies, continuing to brush her hair, looking at herself in the mirror.

“Why don’t we go somewhere?” he asks again, and this time, Darcy turns herself completely to look at him. “We’ll slip out the front door and go anywhere you want. We could get something to eat, or go to the cinema. There’s a Christmas film you like playing just down the street tonight.”

Darcy considers him. “I’m not supposed to leave the house.”

“I’ll take full responsibility,” Lupin adds quickly. “You’ll be with me. Just for a few hours.”

“Is this you asking me on a date?”

He exhales through his nose, pursing his lips and struggling with speech for a moment. “I just want to get you out of the bedroom, and I know you won’t come downstairs with everyone here.”

Darcy licks her lips, conflicted. Something about this feels like a trick—too good to be true. She’s forcibly reminded of the day Lupin has escorted her into Hogsmeade and set her free, only to have Professor McGonagall pinch her ear a little while later with her painful grip. “All right,” she says, despite knowing she shouldn’t. Darcy is sure Lupin knows it, too. “I’ll go. But what are we supposed to do, sneak out the front door? Mrs. Weasley would drag me back inside by the hair.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got a secret weapon.”

The secret weapon turns out to just be Ron, who’s kind enough to distract everyone in the kitchen while Lupin and Darcy stealthily open the front door, slip out, and close it silently behind them. It’s cold out—freezing cold—and the sun is starting to go down already. There’s a fresh layer of snow on the ground, and a chill wind that makes the tip of her nose numb. Darcy pulls her scarf up around her mouth, butterflies fluttering in her stomach as Lupin takes a cautious step onto the sidewalk, looking around the street.

There aren’t terribly many people out on the streets with it being so cold and so close to the holidays. Especially down by Grimmauld Place, anyway. Darcy’s sure the streets lined with charming stores are crowded with Christmas shoppers, restaurants filled with people desperate for a break from the weather. Lupin glances over his shoulder at Darcy, still standing upon the tiny landing outside the front door, and smiles, urging her own. He sets off at a brisk walk through the snow, and Darcy runs to catch up with him, her hands deep in her pockets.

The sense of freedom is slightly overwhelming. She knows very well that no one will be happy when they see Darcy and Lupin are both missing, and Darcy can’t help but remember the last time she’d snuck off; the last time she’d done something so reckless, Harry had been attacked by dementors. But Harry is safe at Sirius’s, and he is not alone this time, and it’s not as if he’d really miss her, considering he won’t even talk to her.

“Are you nervous?” Lupin asks her, as if she’d been voicing her thoughts aloud.

“A bit.”

They become part of the crowd, finishing their Christmas shopping nearby. Darcy does buy quite a few things—books and jewelry and candy and small trinkets and things she could give to anyone in particular. She tells Lupin to turn away when she picks something up for him, and when she teasingly asks him if he’s gotten her anything for Christmas, he replies flatly, “Don’t be stupid, Darcy, of course I’ve gotten you something,”—which only makes her blush furiously in the store and makes Lupin erupt with laughter. He apologizes into her ear, kissing the top of her head before wandering off.

They walk in and out of shops, blending in with the Muggles, no one giving them a second thought or glance (except for beggar who assumes Lupin to be Darcy’s father), and Darcy’s anxiety slowly settles. He takes her by the hand outside of a music shop and pulls her inside without much protest, and the shop owner—a fifty-something short, round man with rosy cheeks and a tufts of gray hair above his ears, the top of his head shining with reflected lighting—greets them. Darcy wanders around with her arms around herself, trying to stop shivering, until the owner pulls down a guitar and offers to play her a song.

“For me?” she asks, startled, sitting down upon an empty chair across from him.

“The truth is,” he replies, plucking a few strings and tuning them, “it’s not very often young women line up to listen to me play anymore. Indulge an old man?”

“I’d love to hear. What’s the song?”

“Something I wrote very long ago.”

Darcy smiles weakly at him, listening to him eagerly finger the strings, obviously practiced and trained. He closes his eyes as he plays, as if he’s done this a thousand times. He reminds her of Ludo Bagman, excited to show off, to impress her, and she can’t help but to enjoy it. Not exactly a melancholy tune, but a serene one, one that puts Darcy’s mind at ease and makes her think of summer days at Hogwarts, sitting on Emily’s shoulders in the lake, studying beneath the shady beech tree, dozing off with the grass tickling her face.

When he finishes, Darcy claps politely, and the man replaces the guitar on the wall, beaming at her, cheeks flushed as if he’s taken five successive shots. “Do you play?”

“You used to play the piano, didn’t you, Darcy?” Lupin interrupts, not unkindly.

Darcy blushes, shaking her head. “I’m not very good.”

But the owner leads her over to a piano and insists she sit. Darcy stretches out her long fingers, settling them onto the keys, trying to remember anything from the piano lessons Aunt Petunia made her take. She doesn’t want to look at Lupin, to reveal this particular part of her to him, or anyone. She doesn’t want him to know that she still carries around pieces of that little girl Aunt Petunia wanted her to be—afraid to show him parts of her life before him, before Hogwarts and magic and Voldemort. Darcy sits up straighter and clears her throat, pressing her finger down lightly on one key before beginning a song she didn’t realize she remembered how to play.

It’s clumsy and embarrassing at times, but Darcy remembers more than she’d thought. A solemn song that she feels wouldn’t be out of place in her dreams—not the good ones, but certainly not the nightmares. Or laying in bed alone with her thoughts, a cigarette between her lips. A song that reminds her of Mrs. Duncan’s funeral, or how she’d felt the night she had walked into the lake. A song that reminds of her the weeks she’d spent crying over Lupin. The shop owner adopts a more somber expression, and Lupin watches her curiously, his brow furrowed and a crease between his eyebrows—looking at Darcy as if in a new light, as if she’s just revealed a completely different side of herself that he’s never seen, and it’s partially true. When Darcy can’t remember anymore of the song, she stops abruptly, holding her hands in her lap, still flushing.

“Piano Sonata number fourteen,” the shop owner says, bowing his head at her and smiling.

“My Aunt Petunia called it Moonlight Sonata,” Darcy says bashfully. “She said it reminded her of rainy days.”

“Indeed.”

Lupin bids the man goodbye and he and Darcy leave the shop, walking down the street in silence. She wants him to break it, and he does after a few minutes of incredulity. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard,” he tells her breathlessly, lowering his scarf so she can hear him. “Why don’t you play the piano at home?”

“Because no one wants to hear me play.”

“ _Christ_ , Darcy— _I_ do.”

“You’re only saying that,” Darcy says.

“I’m not,” Lupin insists. “Any other hidden talents you’d like to tell me about? Can you sing well? Are you fluent in French?”

“No,” she laughs softly. “I definitely can’t sing, and I don’t know a word of French.”

It’s something out of a dream, reminiscent of better days, when they loved each other unrestrainedly. Darcy wonders, as they take a late dinner in a loud restaurant, if anyone is worried about them or looking for them or furious at Lupin because clearly it was his idea. She wonders if anyone is out looking for her, waiting for her to come home so she can be scolded. But Darcy doesn’t want to go home—not now, not ever, not with Lupin sitting across from her at dinner, looking up to smile at her every so often, not having to speak because they already know all the things they want to say.

_I love you_ , Darcy thinks.

A smile.

_I want to be yours again, if you’d have me_.

A sad smile.

_Just let me kiss you right here, in front of all these people._

An apologetic smile. He runs a hand through his hair and looks back down at his finished dinner, his jaw clenched. When Lupin sees she’s finished, as well, he suggests they grab a drink at a pub nearby. The atmosphere is cozy inside, the air filled with smoke, and Darcy begins to light cigarette after cigarette, sipping on whiskey until Lupin decides she’s probably had enough and drags her out of there.

He does still take her to see the Christmas film he’d mentioned. Darcy falls asleep not thirty minutes into it, but it’s hard to fight it, being so comfortable and slightly drunk, her cheek against his shoulder, like it was meant to be there and fits so well, one arm hooked around his. Lupin doesn’t wake her until the credits roll, as everyone else is filtering out.

“Are you ready to go back?” he asks her quietly, turning his head slightly to look down at her. “I think we’ve gone long enough to raise a proper uproar.”

“Do we ever have to go back?” Darcy whispers, her cheek still pressed against his shoulder.

“You’ve no idea how badly I want to tell you no.”

It’s gotten even colder when they start the walk back, heavy snowflakes starting to fall again. The streets are nearly silent, everyone having gone home and gotten in their cars to happily discuss the movie. Darcy and Lupin walk back in silence, huddled together for warmth and moving rather slowly, scarves covering their mouths and hoods pulled over their heads. She touches the small bag at her hip, hidden by her coat, where all of her brand new gifts are stored by use of a handy charm Lupin had put on it.

When they finally reach Grimmauld Place, entering the warm and quiet house, they both take a moment to peel off their gloves, unravel their scarves, shake out their boots, and hang their coats on the rack near the door. Darcy listens for a moment, but doesn’t hear anything—no voices, no footsteps, nothing. She takes this as a good sign. Lupin puts a hand on her back and leads her to the foot of the stairs, mussing up his hair furiously.

“A drink before you go upstairs?” he whispers, looking down at her with heavy looking eyes. “Something hot?”

Exhausted from the evening’s events and exhausted from overthinking and being so afraid and worried, Darcy reluctantly shakes her head. “I’m tired. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Lupin gives her a small smile and a polite nod.

She smiles back, shrugging. “I know you only did it to make me feel better, but…” Darcy sighs heavily. “Thank you. I had a good time tonight.”

Inching closer, Lupin raises his eyebrows. “You did?”

“Yeah, I did.”

There’s a few awkward moments of silence as they stand there, enjoying each other’s company, afraid to commit to a goodnight. Darcy’s heart pounds painfully hard in her chest as he moves closer, craning his neck out to kiss her. Darcy closes her eyes, his breath on her lips, his nose brushing against hers—to kiss him would be happiness now, a happiness in the dark cloud that is currently Grimmauld Place. _Let me kiss him, where no one is watching, so I can show him what it is to be kissed by someone that loves him. Let me show him I have not forgotten the shape and feel of his lips, let me kiss these lips that I dream of._

“Where have _you_ been?”

Jumping away from each other, their cheeks turn red as Mrs. Weasley storms out of the kitchen in a nightgown, looking more furious than Darcy has ever seen her—except maybe when they’d arrived at the Burrow via flying Ford Anglia. Her hand reaches out quickly to snatch Darcy’s wrist, jerking her away from Lupin, towards the kitchen.

“Molly, please—it was my idea,” Lupin says quickly, following them into the kitchen. “I thought she might want to get out of the house—”

“She’s not supposed to be leaving the house at all,” Mrs. Weasley shoots back at him, releasing Darcy’s wrist, seemingly forgetting she’s ever there. Her eyes are fixed so firmly on Lupin’s face, and she says dangerously to Darcy, “Go to bed, Darcy. I don’t want you setting foot outside your room again tonight.”

So Darcy retreats back to her bedroom, listening to Lupin and Mrs. Weasley argue over her, not bothering to lower their voices.

“...need to leave her alone, Remus—the poor girl has enough to deal with…”

“I know, I just thought she’d enjoy—”

“Do you want something to happen to her? It’s not safe for her out there—”

“She was with me,” Lupin protests, but he doesn’t seem so confident anymore. “We stayed close to the house, and she’s fine…”

“She’s just a girl—a girl who is so in love with you she will do anything you say, anything you want, and things like this don’t help…”

Darcy closes her bedroom door and the voices come to an abrupt stop. Flinging herself onto her bed, Darcy dumps out her new gifts in front of her, emptying the small bag and reaching in to check just for good measure. Things she’s gotten for Harry, Hermione, Ron, Gemma, Lupin, Emily, Sirius, and Snape—probably too many things, but Darcy wants to show everyone how much she loves them, and she feels so distant from everyone that maybe gifts are an easier way than by using words to express her affection. She sorts through them all and hides them in her dresser, not a second too soon—for someone knocks on the door as she’s closing the dresser drawer and doesn’t wait for an answer before the door opens.

Lupin steps in and Darcy’s heart soars. She doesn’t care what he has to say now—likely some stupid apology like always after something like this—I’m sorry for giving you the wrong impression, I’m sorry that I gave you the best day you’ve had in weeks, I’m sorry that I tried to kiss you—but none of these apologies leave his lips.

“I’m really glad you’re going to be here for Christmas,” he says breathlessly, making Darcy smile very weakly. Lupin takes a step forwards, closing the door behind him. “How much did you hear?”

“Nothing,” she lies, turning away from him and pulling pajamas out of her wardrobe. “I hope she didn’t give you a hard time.”

“Right,” he says, unconvinced. Clearing his throat, he rocks back and forth on his feet. “Darcy, could I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Did it ever bother you? The age difference?”

Darcy hesitates, lowering her pajamas onto the bed, turning slowly to face him. She shakes her head. “No.” And then, feeling that she may as well be completely honest after the wonderful day he’s given her, she says, “Well…sometimes it made me feel like…I wasn’t good enough for you.”

Lupin exhales loudly, running a hand through his hair, only making himself look more handsome. “Why would you ever think that?”

She only shrugs, feeling very inadequate and blushing. Darcy’s eyes find her feet, her violently pink socks catching her attention.

“I should go,” Lupin murmurs, taking a hesitant step back towards the door. “Goodnight, Darcy.”

Darcy wakes early the next morning, before anyone else. She tiptoes down to the drawing room, encountering no one except Kreacher, who ignores her completely. Untouched, in the corner of the drawing room, a dusty blanket covers the piano that probably hasn’t been played in years. She gently touches a key, and though she isn’t quite positive, it sounds tuned enough for her.

Darcy sits on the bench, which groans under her weight, not having been sat on for years, either. She adjusts, moving closer to the piano, and aligns her fingers with the keys. With a deep, steadying breath, she begins to play the song she’d played in the music shop, slower this times, not as inconsistent and clunky. The music fills the drawing room, wafts through the open door into the rest of the house, echoing inside Darcy’s head. It’s eerie and ominous, the song drifting through the quiet house, like a ghost haunting the empty hallways and filling her with emotion.

She isn’t sure why she plays it—maybe it’s for Lupin, to wake him with what he claims is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. Maybe it’s so he wakes and remembers that she loves him, hopes that the music will fill his soul and make him come back to her. Or maybe she’s playing it for herself—a haunting and brutally honest lament that proclaims her grief throughout the house, a quiet cry for help, a private confession shouted in the faces of everyone she cares about, an intimate and soul-bearing confession, she is naked and allowing everyone to look at her for what she is. She remembers Aunt Petunia waiting for her confession to finish at church, as if confessing would make the abnormal parts of her go away, but the piano and music is kinder and understanding— _Bless me Father, for I have sinned and it has been years since my last confession, I am not as good as I want to be, but this is how I feel, and I need everyone to know it._

When Darcy finishes after a few minutes, she sits still with her hands in her lap for a little. She decides not to touch it any longer, not wanting to bother anyone, but when she turns around, Lupin is already in the threshold.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she whispers, blushing and making to move past him out of the drawing room. “Excuse me.”

Lupin side steps, blocking her way. “Play it again.”

Darcy hesitates, looking up into his face. It is not quite a command, but nor is it an innocent request. Slowly, she takes his hand and pulls him to the sofa facing the piano, urging him to sit. She sits down at the creaking bench again, aligning her fingers, and beginning once more. A minute into the song, Lupin gets to his feet, and Darcy’s heart shatters, assuming he’s going to walk out, but he moves closer to her, each step making her heart race. Her hands begin to tremble, but she continues playing.

When Lupin takes his final step, inches from her shoulder, he looks down at her. Darcy forces herself to keep her eyes on her fingers, eyes on the keys. He’s making her so nervous that she could cry, and when she turns her head to say so, the music stopping abruptly, the sentiment dies in her throat as he kisses her.

He pulls away quickly, keeping his face very close to hers, eyes searching for a reaction. Darcy’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, and she closes the gap between them again, every thought completely wiped from her brain, every worry completely gone—she and Lupin the only two people in the world, the world that has stopped to allow them this stolen moment.

There’s the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Lupin pulls away from her, almost racing out of the drawing room, putting as much distance between them as possible. Halfway across the room, he turns on his heels and lunges towards Darcy again, kissing her hurriedly one last time before leaving her, bewildered, in the drawing room. 


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these chapters keep getting longer and longer....am i sorry? maybe.

“ _Darcy_!”

Darcy jumps, looking up from her untouched breakfast to find everyone looking at her curiously. Hermione, seated at the far end of the table, who had arrived sometime last night while she and Lupin were out of the house, is raising her eyebrows expectantly, patiently awaiting an answer to a question Darcy didn’t even hear. Truthfully, she’d stopped listening to anyone a while ago, when Mrs. Weasley had decided to publicly humiliate her at the crowded breakfast table by chastising her willingness to leave the house and her recklessness in allowing Lupin to lead her away, and only when Lupin’s foot had brushed against hers under the table from the seat across from her did she tune out Mrs. Weasley completely.

“What?” Darcy retorts blankly, picking up her fork again and pushing her cold eggs around on her plate, still rubbing her foot against Lupin’s, only half-listening to what Hermione is saying.

“I said, was that you playing piano this morning?” Hermione asks again.

“Yes,” Darcy answers quickly, looking up and meeting Lupin’s eyes for a moment. He smiles, and she blushes, looking away again.

“Darcy, if you’re not going to eat, then please go get dressed,” Mrs. Weasley sighs exasperatedly, as if Darcy has done nothing but bother her for a week straight, in a way a young child might tire you out with their many questions and inexhaustible energy source (neither of these things remind Darcy of herself, so it irks her that Mrs. Weasley puts on her motherly, exhausted tone). “Professor Snape is going to be here in about an hour to speak to you, and you don’t want him to see you in your pajamas, do you?”

Darcy looks down at herself. Truthfully, she wouldn’t mind Professor Snape seeing her in her pajamas—there’s nothing wrong with them, everything is covered for the most part. Though Darcy knows, after her time at the Burrow, that Mrs. Weasley doesn’t like so much of Darcy’s legs to be showing, but she can’t help that her legs are long and her shorts don’t reach the middle of her thighs.

“Can Professor Snape take me to St Mungo’s today?” Darcy asks, knowing the answer before she even asks. She sees Sirius scrunch his nose out of the corner of eye. “Just for a little bit?”

“No,” Mrs. Weasley snaps, glowering at Lupin. “This is your fault, Remus, instilling in her the desire for adventure with your little outing yesterday.”

Lupin scoffs, looking affronted. “If you think her desire for adventure is my fault, then you clearly don’t know Darcy half as well as you claim.” He smiles sweetly at her across the table, covering her foot with his own. “Let her live, Molly. It’s Christmas.”

Mrs. Weasley ignores him, getting to her feet and pulling Darcy’s plate of untouched food away from her. “Go get dressed, Darcy.”

“Can I have your bacon, Darcy?” Ron asks quickly from her left side. He beams when Darcy grabs her bacon off the plate in Mrs. Weasley’s hands and tosses it onto his plate, and he thanks her with a mouthful of it.

Reluctantly, Darcy pulls her foot out from underneath Lupin’s, leaving the kitchen and feeling everyone’s eyes upon the back of her head. It doesn’t take her long to dress; she doesn’t bother to properly brush her hair, instead running her fingers through it. By the time she smokes a cigarette, making sure to spray the room and herself with some of Gemma’s perfume before Mrs. Weasley scolds her again, this time for smelling like smoke, and brushes her teeth, everyone’s done with breakfast. When Darcy closes herself in the drawing room with a book, no one bothers her much. She isn’t sure if it’s purposefully or not, but she doesn’t mind.

Snape is right on time, something she’s come to admire about him, considering her dislike of waiting around. He joins her in the drawing room, closing the doors and locking them, something that makes Darcy slightly uncomfortable, but she says nothing and draws her feet up, allowing him to sit at the opposite end of the sofa. He waits for her to close her book before speaking. Even before he’s said anything, Darcy’s palms begin to sweat, suddenly very afraid that he’s going to tell her she isn’t allowed to come back to Hogwarts, or that Umbridge is out looking for her at this very moment.

“Why do you look so nervous?” Snape asks suddenly, sounding very puzzled. When Darcy shrugs evasively, Snape shakes his head. “I told you, as long as you do as you are told, I will see to it that you remain at Hogwarts, with me. Do you feel you have been doing your best to adhere to not only my, but Dumbledore’s, requests?”

“Yes,” Darcy answers truthfully. Snape doesn’t argue or disagree with her. “Do you think I have?”

Snape gives her an appraising look, as if determining how much gold to pay for her. “Yes, I think you have. You have shown me a side of you I have never known—one that is capable of holding their tongue and following directions. Truthfully, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Darcy thinks, if Snape had said those things just last year, she would have scoffed and snarled something at him. Now, however, there’s only a short pause before they both smile sheepishly, looking away from each other. “So what did she say, then? When she found out I’d gone?”

“She was informed that Arthur Weasley was in St Mungo’s, and that the Headmaster had given the Weasleys and your brother permission to visit. I told her that you had _my_ express permission to visit, given that Arthur has been something of a father to you.” Snape looks at her again, the faint smile completely vanished from his face. “A few careful words, and she seems content with the idea of having you back for the time being. She is under the impression you are currently at the Burrow, where you return each weekend.”

Darcy suddenly feels a surge of guilt, as if by having Snape lie to Umbridge about her—by having Snape put his own job on the line—it’s asking too much. “I’m sorry,” she whispers to him, holding her knees to her chest. “I never meant to be a burden.”

Snape seems to be choosing his words carefully, grinding his jaw, staring at her with his black eyes, betraying no hint of emotion. “You are not a burden, Darcy,” he says finally, his tone gentler and softer than she’s ever heard it. “You did not ask for this, and I will not hold it against you for that reason.”

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Professor Snape,” Darcy replies with a small smile.

“Don’t get used to it.”

An awkward silence falls over them then, and Darcy suddenly remembers something. “I bought you something for Christmas, Professor,” she says, placing her book off to the side and sitting up straighter. “May I give it to you now?”

“You—?” Snape clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable, and the sight of him squirming makes Darcy grin. Some color creeps into those sallow and pallid cheeks of his, and he avoids her eyes like an anxious schoolboy. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know. It’s nothing—well, I bought them at this Muggle store yesterday, and…” Darcy gets to her feet, holding out a hand to him. “I’ll just show you. Stay there. I’ll be right back.”

Barely three minutes later, Darcy closes the drawing room door behind her again, clutching a small brown bag in her hands, very nervous and embarrassed. Snape hasn’t moved from his seat upon the sofa. Her face burns with embarrassment as she holds it out for him, sitting back down. He looks closely at the bag for a moment, and then takes it warily, as if it might bite him.

Darcy waits with bated breath as he extracts a pair of gloves from out of the bag, holding them up and brushing his thumb over the fabric. “I didn’t know what to get you,” she confesses, unable to look into his eyes. “But I thought—well, every time you bring me here, and we walk down to Hogsmeade, I—I noticed you don’t ever wear gloves, and it’s cold, you know…”

Snape looks at her over the gloves, and Darcy forces herself to lift her eyes. She wishes she knew what he was thinking, wishes she could read his mind, just like he’d read hers.

“If you don’t like them, I can take them back or—or give them to someone else,” she adds quickly. “I just need you to stop looking at me like that.”

Snape opens his mouth to speak, furrowing his brow, looking as if she’s hit him. “You bought these for me?” he asks, seemingly trying to catch her in a lie, but there is no lie this time.

“Yeah,” Darcy answers breathlessly, trying to come across as casual, but failing miserably. “You know, you’ve done so much for me—you’ve let me come back for a second year and I—maybe we got off on the wrong foot, and—well, now that Umbridge is there—I mean, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, except—we’re not enemies, are we?”

He looks at her for a long time, the usual expression of exasperation back on his face. Seeing such a familiar expression makes her smile. “Thank you,” he says with obvious effort. With another puzzled look at Darcy, he puts the gloves back into the bag, but doesn’t go to move.

They watch each other for a moment, and then Snape reaches out across the sofa and takes one of Darcy’s hands in his. The gesture startles her so much that she doesn’t pull away, and his thumb sweeps over the yellowing bruises on her knuckles, his eyes fixing upon them, before he releases her hand.

Darcy glances over her shoulder, chewing on her lip for a moment as she gazed at the piano, and then she turns back to Snape. “Do you want to hear me play a song? I only know the one from memory. I don’t have any sheet music to play anything else, so if you hate it, please don’t say so.”

Snape looks around the room, as if expecting someone else to answer. “All right,” he says. Darcy thinks he looks like someone waiting for a trap to spring, and she laughs softly, making him even more confused.

She sits at the piano and begins to play quietly, as Snape sits in silence behind her. Darcy wishes she knew a happier song, a song that could make her smile, a song that might sound a little less dramatic being played by her, but she presses on, a flush creeping up her neck as she reveals her private confession to Professor Snape. She wonders what the song makes him think of, if he’ll think of her if he hears it again somewhere. After five or so minutes of mistakes and off-key notes, Darcy turns around on the bench to assess Snape’s reaction.

“I didn’t know you could play,” is the first thing he says, seeming genuinely surprised by this revelation.

“I haven’t played for ten years,” she admits with a shrug. “I only just picked it back up yesterday.”

Snape nods, flicking his dark curtains of hair out of his long face. It doesn’t do much for him, only drawing attention to his oily complexion and tight lips and hooked nose. “Is it a…sad song?” he asks her curiously.

Darcy shrugs again, fingering one of the black keys on the piano. “I suppose to some people,” she replies. “The woman who taught it to me said it reminded her of Rome, where she’d first heard it, and she loved Rome. It probably wasn’t such a sad song to her.”

“And to you?”

She keeps her eyes fixed on the keys, lowering her hand to her lap again. “Yes,” she says. “It’s a sad song to me. A song for everyone I have ever lost and will lose.”

Snape continues to eye her for a few moments before slowly getting to his feet, the bag clutched tightly in his hand. “I should be getting back to Hogwarts.”

He opens the door for her, and down at the other end of the narrow corridor, Darcy sees a beaming Gemma walking down the stairs with Lupin. “We’re going to play cards with Sirius and Ron,” Gemma announces, acknowledging Snape with a slight nod. “Should I deal you in?”

Lupin smiles at her, pausing at the foot of the stairs, awaiting her answer. Darcy blushes. “Sure.” She hurries over to her friends, and Lupin puts a hand on the small of her back, ushering her away. Darcy looks over her shoulder at Snape, a cold and drawn look to him, not the soft expression he’d worn just a minute ago in the drawing room with her. “Happy Christmas, Professor.”

* * *

Harry sneaks into Darcy’s bedroom that night as she and Gemma lay on the bed, looking through her photo albums, smoking cigarettes. As soon as the door shuts behind him, both Darcy and Gemma put their cigarettes out, earning themselves an exasperated look from Harry. He seems to hesitate upon seeing Gemma, but decides he doesn’t mind her being there.

“Finally comfortable looking me in the eyes again, are you?” Darcy asks, not unkindly, but Harry blushes slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “What’s changed?”

Without missing a beat, Gemma asks, “Why wouldn’t he look you in the eyes, Darcy?”

Darcy looks at Gemma quickly, considering her. “We heard you talking in St Mungo’s. We know you think Voldemort’s possessing Harry.”

Gemma lowers the photo album, looking mildly uncomfortable and unlike herself. She regains her cool and nonchalant manner rather quickly, however, hiding her face behind the leather bound book again. “You shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, my little lions.” She suddenly laughs. “Did you think Moody didn’t see you?”

“Damn him,” Darcy growls, frowning. “I forgot about his stupid eye.”

“Well…that’s the thing,” Harry says, taking a few steps forward, his face screwed up in concentration. “I mean…Ginny was possessed, remember that diary? And she said there were times where she couldn’t remember what she’d been doing or where she’d been…and I remember everything, and Ron said I was definitely in my bed, so I couldn’t have Disapparated or anything—”

Darcy and Gemma both cut across him. “You can’t Apparate or Disapparate in Hogwarts.”

Harry waves them off impatiently, still thinking. “Yeah, whatever,” he mutters. “It’s nuts, isn’t it? Voldemort can’t be possessing me—he can’t.”

Darcy looks at him curiously. He’s half-confident in this statement, it seems, but she still thinks he’s seeking some sort of confirmation from the both of them. She and Gemma share a long look. Darcy thinks Harry might be onto something, but she wants to know what Gemma thinks. However, Gemma doesn’t speak, which makes her nervous.

“Look, Harry,” Darcy sighs. “You’ve had things like this happen before. Last year, when you dreamed over the summer of Voldemort and Wormtail, and when you dreamt of them again in Divination. Maybe because he’s back now, your dreams are just getting more vivid.” But even as she says this, she knows they bring him no comfort. “Gemma, could you excuse us?”

“Your godfather’s house, your rules,” Gemma grins, leaping over Darcy off the bed and onto the floor with a soft thud. Darcy and Harry keep their eyes on each other as Gemma leaves them in peace, and Darcy doesn’t speak until she hears Gemma’s footsteps fade away down the stairs.

“First of all, Harry, why would you avoid me?” Darcy frowns harder.

“I don’t know,” Harry answers defensively, shrugging his shoulders and looking more like a brooding teenager than Darcy’s ever seen. “I didn’t want you to be…you know, _taken_ or something.”

“No one’s going to _take_ me,” Darcy scoffs, making room for Harry to sit upon the bed. “I’m safe at Hogwarts and I’m safe here. No one will be able to get to me.” Saying the words almost makes her believe it. They come so easily when spoken to Harry, as if it has all been rehearsed several times. “I would do anything for you, Harry. Don’t worry about what could happen to me.”

Harry looks away from her, blushing again. “I know.” And then, his face growing more serious, he looks at her again. “You don’t think he’s possessing me, do you?”

“You present a convincing case,” Darcy admits. “I was thinking too, if Voldemort is possessing you, he’d have access to our secrets, right? Dumbledore would have thought of that, wouldn’t he? If he was worried, he would have done _something_ …right?”

Harry’s body visibly relaxes. “Yeah. Dumbledore would have thought of that. I was thinking of leaving the other night after we heard it—I said I was _thinking_ about it!—and this portrait in my room said he had a message from Dumbledore—”

Bewildered, Darcy blinks in surprise. “What portrait is this?”

“Phineas Nigellus,” Harry explains quickly. “He’s got another portrait hanging in Dumbledore’s office. Anyway, the message was to _stay where you are._ ”

“Dumbledore knew what you were probably thinking,” Darcy murmurs, stroking her chin distractedly. She stares off past Harry, into the mirror hanging on the wall. “He wouldn’t have said that if he thought Voldemort could just…possess you.”

“Then…what was my dream? Or whatever it was?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “But it was lucky you dreamed what you did. You saved Mr. Weasley’s life.”

Harry’s face is alight with happiness then, green eyes shining in the gas lighting, and a small smile graces his face. Here, now, he looks so much like their father, she thinks, even more so with his untidy, dark hair, the glasses, the angled features that Darcy shares. “I’m not the weapon,” he breathes, as if this is the best possible news he could have ever received in his life. Darcy smiles back at him. “I’m _not_ the weapon…”

* * *

The days leading up to Christmas are—for lack of a better word— _fun_. The entire household works hard to properly decorate the house, and Darcy’s glad for it. The sparkling golden streamers and garland and baubles and mistletoe make the place seem less dreary, and Emily and Gemma, windswept and panting, both haul in a fresh Christmas tree one morning, and the girls spend all day decorating it with leftover lights and ornaments Emily had found in her dad’s attic at home. This presents a slight problem, as the drawing room lacks outlets for the lights, but Lupin helps them with a charm Darcy’s never seen before. He aims his wand at each light in turn, filling it with a small, but bright ball of light. It’s tedious, but with all of them helping, it’s done in nearly no time at all, and the Christmas tree looks beautiful when it’s finally finished.

Even Lupin seems in high spirits as Christmas approaches, smiling his cool smile often and laughing quite easily. He, Gemma, and Darcy snicker together every time Emily tries to catch Sirius underneath some mistletoe, only to be left blushing and frowning when Sirius passes right by her with a small smile, either not noticing or blatantly ignoring the mistletoe above them. Because of this, most everyone is careful to avoid the mistletoe when walking with someone else, with the exception of some people; Gemma and Sirius unabashedly kiss each other on the cheek whenever they pass under it together (this always earns Gemma a dangerous and incredulous look from Emily), Darcy and Gemma peck each other on the lips, smiling, when they find themselves beneath it, Sirius kisses Darcy on the head and, in turn, Darcy does the same to Harry. It makes for a fun time, looking towards the entrance to the drawing room to see who is entering and who will be kissed or not kissed, and Darcy almost feels a young girl again, giggling at a party when an empty bottle decides who will be kissing who.

And while Darcy has decided not to sneak into Lupin’s bed at night anymore, not wanting to push boundaries (despite how badly she wants to), there are moments between them that make Darcy’s heart race—a warm smile flashed across a crowded room, the pink tint to his cheeks when they just miss each other underneath the mistletoe, the light and gentle touches on her back and arms, his foot touching hers beneath the table during meals, the backs of their fingers touching lazily as they read silently beside each other. It makes her feel like he’s her teacher again—the hidden and stolen moments, the rush she gets from such small and simple contact, the secrecy of it all. While she doesn’t think anyone suspects anything between them (not that she’d _really_ mind anyone knowing), Darcy relishes it all, reminded of better days spent at Hogwarts, the days when Darcy thought he would be with her always. She doesn’t even tell Gemma about the rush she gets when Lupin’s fingertips ghost against the small of her back, or the look he gives her when he has a few drinks in him, a look that makes Darcy want nothing more than to wrap her arms around him, let him love her, let her show him how it feels to be properly loved again.

And every morning, he’s there, standing in the threshold of the drawing room with a crooked smile on his face as Darcy wakes everyone with the somber melody of Moonlight Sonata. Every morning, the same song—every morning, Lupin’s there, having wandered down from the bedroom, listening to her proclaim her feelings in the way that is easiest to her. He knows now, without her having to explain, knows that she is crying for help, and he is always there to help her. Towards the end of each song, Lupin always wanders over to her, the door of the drawing room closed and hiding them from view, giving them a few extra moments together without someone walking in on them. And every time when Darcy finishes, the last notes hanging in the air, her foot pressed firmly on the pedal and fingers still pressed against the keys, Lupin’s lips find the crook of her neck. Darcy closes her eyes each time, opening her neck to him, chills running down her spine as Lupin places a hand upon her cheek, turning her face towards him to kiss her. He doesn’t speak of these little moments afterwards, especially not in front of the others, but Darcy’s glad he doesn’t ignore them completely, showing her that he remembers by glancing at her lips far too often when surrounded by people and grinning a goofy smile.

Darcy wakes to the sound of her door flying open on Christmas morning, Ron leading the pack into her room. “Ron couldn’t help himself,” Hermione huffs, climbing up into Darcy’s bed before she can even fully wake up. “He and Harry have already opened half his presents. I thought we could open ours downstairs with everyone else, Darcy.”

“Wouldn’t recommend that quite yet,” comes a voice from just outside Darcy’s bedroom door. Fred takes a few steps into her bedroom, eyeing the pile of gifts at the foot of her bed, George on his heels. “Lupin’s down there now trying to diffuse the situation.”

“What situation?” Darcy asks warily, catching a small, wrapped box that George tosses to her.

“Percy sent back his jumper. Mum’s really upset,” George explains, nodding at the present in Darcy’s hand. “Open them, would you? They’re from us, and I want some.”

“Thanks for the sweaters, Darcy,” Harry grins, showing off the new one he’s put on. Darcy smiles back at him.

“Who’s that one for?” Ron asks Hermione suddenly, pointing at a neatly wrapped gift in her hands.

Hermione smiles pridefully, sharing a quick look with Darcy before saying, “It’s for Kreacher. Do you want to come with me and give it to him, Darcy?”

“Not particularly,” Darcy mutters, remembering all the dead mice he’d left outside the bedroom for Gemma and how many of them she had stepped on, and Hermione shoots her an icy look. “He’s vile. Why would I want to give him a present? For all the kind things he’s done for me?”

“I know for a fact you got a gift for Professor Snape, and you won’t even come with me to give Kreacher his?” Hermione retorts coolly, as if Darcy’s giving Snape a gift is the most outrageous and outlandish thing in the world.

“You got _Snape_ a Christmas present?” Ron, Fred, and George all ask at the same time, narrowing their eyes. “Why?”

Darcy flushes. “Whatever,” she snaps defensively, scowling at the Weasleys. She throws Fred and George’s gift into George’s lap and he opens it quickly, digging into the chocolate they’ve gotten her. “I was in a store and I saw something that reminded me of him—whatever, okay? If you want to give Kreacher a gift, then let’s go, Hermione, but you better not have clothes in there for him!”

“It’s a blanket,” Hermione answers sheepishly, her cheeks turning slightly pink.

Mrs. Weasley is alone in the kitchen when Darcy, Harry, Hermione, Ron, Fred, and George make their way downstairs, Darcy’s gifts floating down the stairs behind her, flying automatically towards the drawing room where she plans to open them. While Harry, Hermione, and Ron knock awkwardly on a door off the kitchen—apparently Kreacher’s tiny living space—Darcy glances at Mrs. Weasley and feels very guilty for making things hard on her after all that’s happened in the past few days.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Weasley,” Darcy smiles sweetly, wandering over to her and resting a cheek upon Mrs. Weasley’s shoulder. “Where are Sirius and Remus?”

“You’re sweet, dear,” Mrs. Weasley replies kindly, her nose stuffy and her eyes red. She kisses the top of Darcy’s head. “Merry Christmas to you, Darcy. Remus is in the drawing room…Sirius is around here somewhere…”

“Here, sweetheart,” Sirius says suddenly, emerging from the pantry, arms full of food. He drops the food near Mrs. Weasley, who utters a quiet ‘thank you’, and smiles fondly at Darcy, wrapping her in a tight hug. Darcy smiles against his chest, sighing contently. “What are you doing, Hermione?” he asks over Darcy’s head, his voice sharp and suspicious.

“I’m leaving Kreacher his present,” Hermione replies meekly, blushing again as she sets the blanket in a small closet filled with cobwebs and dead mice. “Hey, Darcy, look at this picture! It looks like Gemma!”

“Gemma won’t be happy knowing Kreacher has a photo of her in there,” Darcy jokes, sharing a chuckle with Sirius. And then she frowns, releasing Sirius and running to Hermione. “He better not be stealing my pictures!”

“It isn’t one of yours, nor is it of Gemma.” Hermione holds the faded picture out for Darcy, and Darcy looks down upon it, scrunching her nose. “Who is this, Sirius?”

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” Sirius answers coldly, turning his nose up at the photo. “Cousin.” He turns and skulls out of the kitchen, mumbling under his breath about Kreacher.

Darcy looks at it carefully, examining it with her brows furrowed. The young woman photograph certainly does look like Gemma, but Darcy thinks more so in the way she holds herself, the slightly arrogant looking half-cocked eyebrow, the haughty sort of beauty to her, the defined features. While Gemma’s dark hair is straight, sleek, and cropped at her shoulders, Bellatrix’s is wild and untamed, much like Darcy’s after days without picking up a brush; while Gemma’s dark eyes do not lack for warmth, Bellatrix’s certainly do—they are cold and merciless, even in the picture. They share the same sharp jaw, however, the same straight nose, and porcelain looking skin. It’s easy to see how Kreacher is reminded of Bellatrix by just looking at Gemma, but Darcy knows that there’s much more of Sirius in Gemma than there is of Bellatrix.

“Darcy, go open your presents,” Mrs. Weasley says quickly, bustling around and looking through the food Sirius has brought her. “After lunch, we’ll take another visit to St Mungo’s.”

This cheers Darcy considerably, and she makes her way to the drawing room with Harry, Hermione, and Ron at her heels. Sirius sits with his back to the family tree, opening one of the gifts Darcy had gotten for him; Lupin is already seated on the sofa, admiring a hand knitted sweater Mrs. Weasley had made for him with an embarrassed grin—a color that is slightly yellow but gold, as well, with a red R upon it.

Ron groans loudly at the sight of it. “Merlin’s saggy— _Mum_!” He runs his hands down his face, his ears turning red. “If you wanted a sweater, I would have happily given you mine.”

“If you don’t want yours, I’ll take it. Your sweaters fit perfect,” Darcy says quickly, seating herself beside Lupin, Hermione sitting at her feet. Harry occupies the empty space beside their godfather, and Ron continues to sort through Darcy’s presents. “I could always use new sweaters. Could probably even make the R into a D if I wanted to.”

“Maybe Dobby would like your sweater if you don’t want it,” Hermione hisses, passing Darcy a few neatly wrapped presents. “Darcy could make the D for Dobby.”

Darcy and Lupin exchange a sideways glance while Hermione’s back is turned, one that Ron doesn’t miss. He snickers, giving one of Darcy’s presents a shake to hear it rattle.

It’s a good haul, just like Ron says. Hermione has gotten her a planner to help with outlining lessons for the first years; Harry and Ron put their money together to gift her a box of assorted candies, many of them candies she’s never tried before; Mrs. Weasley has made her the usual sweater with a D on the front, an emerald green color; Mr. Weasley has resorted to chocolate once again, but the ones filled with firewhiskey. Darcy’s glad to see that Gemma has not changed, either, having placed a tall bottle of firewhiskey in a gift bag and two soft packs of cigarettes. Lupin doesn’t seem very impressed by this, but holds his tongue. Among the other things are a new scarf, hat, and gloves from Emily (a Gryffindor red color); a handmade, multicolored sweater from Carla she’d bought in Turkey that, upon closer inspection, Darcy assumes is for a house-elf, but is really for an owl (she wishes Max were here now to try it on); and a few picture frames from Sirius.

When Darcy finally opens Lupin’s gift, a grin splits across her face. She turns to him, holding three books in her hands and beaming. “Thank you,” she says breathlessly, thumbing through them. Each of them is marked, just like the previous books, and all of them are Muggle books. “I’ve never read this one. _Beowulf_ —is it good?”

“It’s long, an epic poem,” Lupin chuckles, watching Darcy flip through the inked up pages lazily. “But violent and exciting and with a character who feels the need to prove himself—what a poem should be, in my opinion.”

Darcy laughs softly. “You’re such a _boy_.”

“But that’s why I’ve balanced it out—look.” Lupin takes Beowulf away from her and raises his eyebrows, looking very self-satisfied. “ _The Bell Jar_. You’ll like that one.”

“Sylvia Plath?” Darcy laughs again, holding it up as Ron opens the new Chudley Cannons sweater and poster she’s gotten him (“Wow, thanks, Darcy!”). “You see Sylvia Plath and think of me?”

Lupin shrugs sheepishly, his cheeks flooding with color. “Well, you know…”

This makes Darcy smile. “‘Out of the ash, I rise with my red hair, and I eat men like air’.” She holds up the last book, _Praise_. “I know this one!”

“You do?”

“Of course,” she answers, turning to Lupin and considering him. He looks genuinely surprised that she’s familiar with the book. “‘We asked the captain what course of action he proposed to take toward a beast so large, terrifying, and unpredictable. He hesitated to answer, and then said judiciously:’,” Darcy pauses, and the corners of Lupin’s lips turn slightly upwards as she finishes, “‘I think I shall praise it.’”

Lupin rubs the scruff on his face, not looking away from her, the smile stuck to his face. For a moment, Darcy thinks he’s going to kiss her here, now, in front of her brother and her godfather and her friends, his face is getting closer—

“Darcy, how do you even remember all that stuff?” Ron asks, bringing the both of them back to their surroundings. “Muggle poetry must be the most boring thing in the world.”

“Aunt Petunia used to have her recite it after dinner parties,” Harry supplies, making his sister blush furiously. “I used to listen from the top of the stairs. I like that one you used to read to me after you’d finish with those dinner parties. The one you always read when it was time for bed.”

Darcy tilts her head back and laughs out loud. “Annabel Lee?” she asks, and Harry shrugs. “Aunt Petunia would never let me read Poe. So I read it anyway, and to you, as well.”

“Who are you, Darcy?” Sirius teases, elbowing Harry in the arm. “Reading poetry, playing the piano…I quite like this side of you.”

Darcy looks at Lupin for a moment, grateful to find him looking back at her. Her smile falters only slightly. Harry fills the silence. “I haven’t heard Darcy play the piano in ten years or so. Until the other day, anyway.”

“Hey, Darcy, this one has your name on it,” Ron says suddenly, picking up an unlabeled gift. He turns it around and flips it over, shrugging as he passes it to Hermione, who passes it to Darcy. “Doesn’t say who it’s from.”

Darcy opens it with everyone watching, feeling nervous with the room now completely silent. The wrapping paper falls off to reveal a black leather bound binder. Running her hands over the cover, she looks sharply at Lupin. “Is this from you?”

Lupin shakes his head, looking around the room, but no one confesses.

Suddenly very anxious, her heart racing and fingers shaking, Darcy opens the binder to find it’s not empty—there are pages upon pages inside, sheet music, songs she’s never heard of and ones she does, pieces that look doable and others that look impossible. She looks up at Lupin again, frowning. “Did you do this?”

“No,” he says quickly, defensively.

“Remus Lupin, you tell me right now,” Darcy hisses, her mouth very dry. “Did you do this?”

“No!”

“Who did this?” Darcy asks the silent room. Everyone looks at her, wide-eyed. “ _Who did this_?”

When no one answers, Darcy snatches the binder shut, holds it to her chest, and runs from the room. She hurries up the stairs, ignoring Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen, locking herself in her room. Darcy throws the binder on her bed and it bounces slightly, flopping and something falls out of it, the corner of some yellowed parchment. Hesitating, she pulls it out, holding it up to her eyes.

_Merry Christmas._

She doesn’t need a signature to tell her whose handwriting it is. Darcy holds her face in her hands. Maybe she’d known it already, when Snape had taken her hand in his under the guise of inspecting her knuckles. Maybe she’d known it before then, even. All the things he’d tried to say, but abandoned halfway through. His soft laughter when they were alone, after she’d made a muttered joke. The gentle touches after Umbridge had bruised her. When she had opened his drawer to find he’d kept the S.P.E.W. badge. Maybe she knew it even then, but didn’t want to acknowledge it.

“Darcy, can I come in?”

“Yes,” Darcy answers breathlessly, her heart swelling with love at the sound of Lupin’s voice. “Yes, please.”

He slips through the door and closes it again. “What’s the matter?” he asks. “What’s gotten into you?”

She pauses, looking over her shoulder at the binder on the bed. “It’s from Snape,” Darcy says. “He gave this to me.”

Lupin blinks in surprise. Darcy waits for his reaction, but no words come, only a puzzled expression on his face. She doesn’t know why the idea riles her up so much—after all, it’s just a book of music. And clearly Snape had gotten it after she played for him, so Darcy thinks maybe it was just the considerate thing to do after she had gotten him a gift. A _thank you_ , a courtesy gift.

But maybe that’s what makes Darcy uneasy about it—it isn’t _just_ a courtesy gift. A courtesy gift would have been a new set of scales, or ingredients she’s running low on, or a scarf, or a bottle of wine. Snape’s gift is meaningful, and she hates it. Snape had put thought into this gift, had clearly enjoyed her playing the piano for him like a good little girl should. It reminds Darcy of the poetry book Lupin had given her for Christmas while they were both at Hogwarts—something personal, something that was supposed to _mean_ something.

_It’s my stupid fault_ , Darcy scolds herself, _if I hadn’t bought him any stupid gloves, he would have just ignored me_.

“I hate him,” Darcy whispers, knowing it’s not close to true. She hates herself even more for it. “I hate him for what he did to you.”

Lupin grinds his teeth for a moment. “Then why do you go back to him?”

“To Hogwarts, not to Snape,” she answers quickly. “And because I have to.”

“Or you could stay.”

Anger flashes across her face, but she softens at the pleading look on Lupin’s face. “Don’t ask that of me.”

The door opens abruptly on them, and Lupin turns on his heel to look a harassed looking Mrs. Weasley in the face. “Lunch is ready,” she snaps at them both. “Come, Darcy.”

Darcy gives him an apologetic look before following Mrs. Weasley out of the room. 


	37. Chapter 37

“You all right?”

Darcy hardly hears Lupin, her face pressed against the cold glass of the car window, and she decides not to answer. The streets are nearly empty, everyone at home celebrating the holidays together, huddled in front of a blazing fire to keep warm, probably watching Christmas specials on the television, likely not paying attention to the lone car driving down the icy street with far too many people comfortably inside. With Mundungus driving, the inside of the car is heavy with the smell of tobacco and stale drink, but Darcy’s just impressed that he actually knows how to drive. Maybe, anyway, for Emily—seated in between Mundungus and George in the front seat, keeps muttering under her breath to him as he fusses with the clutch and continually brakes slightly harder than necessary every so often.

Lupin shifts awkwardly beside her, his knee bumping against hers, raising his arm to drape it around Darcy’s  
shoulder. It’s a comforting feeling, but a bold move, and Mrs. Weasley, seated across from them between Bill and Fred, gives Lupin a sharp look. Regardless of Mrs. Weasley’s feelings, Darcy leans in against Lupin’s chest and closes her eyes, counting down the minutes until she’s out of this car, until the smell of smoke and drink stop suffocating her, until she can breathe in the fresh air again.

“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Lupin murmurs against her hair, as if reading her mind. “If Mundungus ever figures how to drive the car.”

“I’m workin’ on it,” Mundungus hisses. “It’s not very often I drive a manual—”

“Stop! You’re going to make the car stall!” Emily tells him shrilly, rubbing her temples in an exasperated sort of way. “For the love of—Dung, who taught you how to drive?”

“ _I_ did!” he scoffs, looking deeply offended. “What do you know about driving, Duncan?”

“My dad’s a _Muggle_ , you idiot. I probably know a lot more about driving than you do,” Emily says incredulously, crossing her arms over her chest and huffing. “But if you don’t want my help, then fine. When we get stuck, we’ll all just freeze our asses off and walk the rest of the way, all because you were too prideful to ask for help driving.”

“I don’t need no help driving,” Mundungus retorts, violently forcing the car into second gear, making the entire thing shake and shudder beneath them. “So shut up, would’ya? You’re what—sixteen? If I wanted your opinion or your help, I’d’ve asked for it, so shut it.”

“You can’t talk to me that way,” Emily hisses, her face inches from Mundungus’ sweaty complexion. He keeps his face forwards, eyes on the road, trying to ignore Emily’s blazing expression. “And for your information, I’m twenty, not sixteen—”

“Big deal.” Mundungus grips the steering wheel tight with one hand, slamming on the brake as he gives Emily a dangerous look. “Just shut up and let me drive, right?”

“Would the both of you just shut up?” Mad-Eye Moody growls, his back to both of them, but his magical eye rolled back to look through the back of his head. He seems rather pleased when both Emily and Mundungus fall silent at his command, and Mundungus seems to drive a little better without Emily hissing orders and instructions in his ear.

Darcy meets Mrs. Weasley’s eyes for a moment, blushing upon the realization that she has not looked away from she and Lupin. Mrs. Weasley’s lips are pursed in a very Aunt Petunia-like way, her eyes flashing with anger or disappointment—one or the other. When Darcy tries to pull away from his chest to look back out of the window, Lupin holds her tighter to him, smiling down at her. “Are you all right, Darcy?”

“I’m fine.”

Her answer couldn’t be further from the truth, but the truth is certainly nothing Darcy wants to discuss with Lupin, never mind the entire car full of people. She wants to talk to Gemma about it—about the gift Snape had gotten her, about her suspicions. Of course she’d known Snape cared about her, of course she’d known that he continues to have a soft spot for her, a soft spot that had really bloomed this year when Umbridge came to Hogwarts and they had a common enemy to work against. But she can’t stop thinking about what everyone has been saying to her over the past few months, maybe even the past year—could Snape love her as he did her mother? Or is Darcy giving herself a lot more credit than she deserves? All those gentle touches that Darcy had come to appreciate, the hand on the nape of her neck, the fingers curled around her arm, the brush of his thumb against her knuckles, a palm upon her cheek—none of those touches have ever made her heart race with love, have never made her dizzy or warm or embarrassed. Never has Darcy imagined what it would be like to kiss Snape, to be with him, to love him, never has she dreamt about him the way she dreams of Lupin, never has she loved him the way she loves Lupin.

Snape had always seen her as James and Lily’s daughter, since the first day of classes during her first year at Hogwarts—she’s sure of it. Even during her last year with him, Darcy and Snape had barely been professional colleagues (does he even think of her as a colleague?), scolded by Dumbledore for their inability to be kind to each other except during those stolen moments when Darcy had accidentally revealed vulnerability, tears, heartache. And now it seems that Snape feeds on her vulnerability—he knows that Darcy relies upon him and needs him and cares for him, and he acts upon it. Darcy doesn’t think she would mind very much if Snape ever only sees her as James and Lily’s daughter for the rest of his life, had hoped that’s how he’d seen her—a young girl seeking protection, seeking familiarity in him while alone at Hogwarts. When had he started seeing her as _Darcy_? When had he pushed aside his pride and acknowledged she was not her father? Or her mother, for that matter? Or had Darcy read him wrong—which is a likely thing—and he’d always seen her as she is? Darcy Potter?

St Mungo’s is decorated for Christmas when they finally enter the hospital, an overwhelming display of red and gold baubles that line the ceilings, Christmas trees much more symmetrical and prettier than the one in Sirius’s drawing room (not that she would ever tell Gemma or Emily that after the work they did to get it into the house), and holly drapes from the tops of thresholds (Lupin, being the tallest, has to duck occasionally, lest he be hit in the head with it).

When everyone files into the room, they gather around Mr. Weasley. Gemma’s with him, fingers brushing over his fresh bandages, talking about something in low voices that makes the both of them chuckle. She straightens up at the sight of everyone and grins at them, slipping between Darcy and Lupin, resting her cheek on Darcy’s shoulder and sighing happily, “Merry Christmas, brave Gryffindors! Everyone like my gifts?”

Everyone thanks her quickly—Ron, especially, makes sure to thank Gemma nearly a hundred times for the new wizards chess set—and Gemma curtseys for everyone, bowing her head politely in return for their thanks. She reaches out for Hermione, on the other side of Darcy, and squeezes her hand, bringing Hermione closer.

“I _have_ missed you, Hermione,” she smiles, smoothing her bushy hair down, and Darcy can’t help but smile along at the sight of Hermione allowing Gemma to do so. “But things to do, people to care for. I’ll see you all in a little bit.”

“Are you coming home tonight?” Darcy asks Gemma quietly, her lips very close to her ear. “I have to tell you something.”

“Sorry, no,” Gemma frowns, looking sorry enough. “It’s Christmas. You know how mum and dad are. I’m off tomorrow, though. I’ll come by then.”

As Gemma makes to leave the room, someone calls her name in a hurry, and Darcy turns around to find the same man in bed that had been there days ago when they’d first come to visit, the young man who’d been bitten by a werewolf. Dirty blond hair pushed back out of his eyes, his curls smoothed back as much as they can be, a light beard gracing his face, the man looks to Gemma hopefully. He seems to look much better, some color having returned to his face, the remains of his turkey lunch on the table beside his bed. When Gemma turns around and raises her eyebrows kindly at him, waiting for a complaint, the man sits up again. His eyes sweep the large crowd of people before he clears his throat and looks directly at Gemma again.

“My bite hurts,” he says sheepishly. “Would you take a look, please?”

Gemma’s eyebrows knit together in concern and she moves closer to him. Most everyone turns away, back to Mr. Weasley, but Darcy and Lupin watch on curiously. “It shouldn’t,” she says, unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt and pushing it aside to reveal a bandaged wound on his chest. Gemma lifts it with gentle fingers and inspects the bite mark closely, brushing her fingertips lightly over it. “It’s not inflamed, nor does it look infected. Do you want me to fetch the Healer for you? Have you been given anything for pain?”

“No,” he answers, putting on a brave face. “It’s not that bad.”

Lupin chuckles softly, looking down at Darcy and whispering, “His bite doesn’t hurt. He likes her.”

The man hears this, his eyes snapping to Lupin, anger flashing in them. “What do _you_ know about werewolf bites, then? Better shut it, or you’ll be next.”

At this, Lupin, Darcy, and Gemma all laugh out loud. Darcy feels rather guilty at first, for laughing at the idea of Lupin being a werewolf, but he doesn’t seem to have taken any offense. However, it’s Gemma that answers. “He probably knows a bit more than you do, Liam. Play nice now, you’re among friends.” She smiles at the man, shaking her head slightly. “And if you’re going to threaten people, don’t threaten the three of us. None of us are frightened of werewolves—especially ones that complain of pain just to have my hands on them. Should I get the Healer or will you stop being such a baby now?”

“No, you don’t need to get a Healer,” the man called Liam grumbles, blushing slightly. “And you should really work on your bedside manner.”

“Funnily enough, I think I’ve heard that from another werewolf once before,” Gemma grins, sharing a knowing look with Lupin. “Besides, you only dislike my bedside manner when I’m telling you something you don’t want to hear.”

“Oh, _Darcy_ —wonderful!”

Darcy’s attention is pulled from Gemma and Liam at the sound of Mr. Weasley’s voice. While Gemma does not leave them, instead sitting beside Liam’s bed and rearranging the few things on the nightstand, she looks slightly anxious, looking up at Mrs. Weasley every so often, going about her business in a very busy sort of way. Mr. Weasley is smiling jovially, however, holding up Darcy’s Christmas gift, a Walkman she had come across while shopping with Lupin. He waves her over, and Darcy reluctantly leaves Lupin’s side to receive a one-armed hug from Mr. Weasley and kiss to the temple. That’s when Mrs. Weasley notices something is off, when she gets a closer look at his bandages.

“Arthur, they’ve changed your bandages,” she says suddenly, and Darcy can feel Mr. Weasley tense as she releases him. “You weren’t due for a bandage change until tomorrow.”

“What?” Mr. Weasley asks too quickly, his voice higher than it had been a minute before. “It’s nothing—I—”

“Gemma, why did Arthur get his bandages changed?”

Darcy turns quickly, her eyes moving from Mr. Weasley to Mrs. Weasley to Gemma, who seems to have been interrupted in the middle of making eyes at Liam, freezing suddenly. She clears her throat and sits up straighter, raising her thin eyebrows at Mr. Weasley.

Mr. Weasley sighs heavily, avoiding the piercing gaze Mrs. Weasley is eyeing him with. “Augustus Pye…the trainee Healer…well, he’s interested in…complementary medicine—Muggle medicine…and Gemma had brought the idea forward of…well, _stitches_ —”

“Mr. Weasley!” Gemma scoffs, frowning across the room at him. “Way to throw me under the bus! I thought you said you’d leave me out of it!”

Mrs. Weasley’s face is dangerous, and the atmosphere changes almost instantly. Everyone gathered around Mr. Weasley’s bed looks suddenly very uncomfortable and awkward. Bill, Fred, and George slip out of the room inconspicuously, Hermione takes a few steps backwards to stand at Darcy’s side, Harry and Ron look down at their feet. “Are you telling me,” Mrs. Weasley continues, shooting Gemma a nasty look, “that you have convinced my husband to mess around with Muggle remedies? Is is not bad enough that you’ve used Remus for your experimenting, and now you’ve decided to use my husband?”

“Molly…” Lupin starts sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, looking very uncomfortable with being dragged into the argument. He looks down at Darcy, one of her arms around Hermione, and grimaces.

Gemma gets to her feet, the expression on her face mutinous. She has no problem meeting Mrs. Weasley’s stare, and doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about arguing back, either. “I haven’t _used_ anyone—both Remus and Mr. Weasley were fully aware of what was going to be done, and agreed to it. Don’t you dare make me out to be the bad guy—”

“Molly, please—stitches, they—they work well with Muggle injuries,” Mr. Weasley says again, but Darcy wishes she could force him to stop talking, knowing that nothing good will come of this. “But unfortunately, they haven’t been working the way we would have liked with…with my particular injury…”

Flushed and furious, Mrs. Weasley turns her narrowed eyes back on her husband. “ _Meaning_?”

At this, everyone scatters. Lupin slinks back to Gemma’s side at Liam’s bed. Huffing angrily, Gemma pulls the curtains around Liam’s bed closed with unnecessary roughness, hiding the three of them from view. Harry and Ron give Darcy a meaningful look and, with their hands in their pockets, sneak out of the room. As Mrs. Weasley opens her mouth, presumably to lose control of herself at Mr. Weasley, Darcy clutches Hermione’s shoulder and steers her quickly from the ward, Emily and Ginny following eagerly behind them. As soon as the door closes, Emily laughs.

“Can you believe him? _Stitches_! What was he thinking?”

“Shut up,” Darcy groans, rubbing her temples, leading the way down the busy and beautifully decorated corridor. “I was the one who told Gemma what stitches are in the first place…”

“Leave it to Gemma to bring stitches up to the Healer, though,” Emily chuckles darkly, shoulder to shoulder with Darcy. They fall back slightly, allowing Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny to lead the way towards the stairs, hoping for a cup of tea or anything to distract them from the raging Mrs. Weasley, bellowing off in the distance. “I fell down the stairs once, when I was a kid, and my leg opened up. Dad wanted to take me to the hospital for some stitches, but mum fixed it with magic. She was quite good at healing small injuries like that.”

“Darcy had stitches a few times,” Harry says, looking over his shoulder at his sister and Emily. “Remember that one time? You took the stitches out of your finger by yourself.”

“What did you expect me to do? Leave them in forever?” Darcy asks, smiling weakly, nodding towards the double doors that mark the staircase. “Come on.”

They make their slow ascent up the stairs, talking idly among themselves, laughing at Mr. Weasley’s situation, but stopping themselves when they remember they have to share a house with an angry Mrs. Weasley for the rest of Christmas break. As they reach the fourth floor, Darcy glances down the ward for Spell Damage and jumps when she sees someone looking right back at her. Her abrupt stop causes everyone else to stop with her, following her line of sight.

A face is looking back at her—a face she has not seen in years, a face she last saw as she clung to his body with one arm and held Ginny’s hand with the other as a phoenix pulled them from the bowels of the castle, from the Chamber of Secrets. If he recognizes her, he shows no inkling of it, but he looks very much the same as he did years ago. His blonde hair is combed neatly, perfectly curled, but not wild, and his bright blue eyes seem slightly unfocused and distant and innocent, his wide smile revealing a mouthful of perfect, white teeth. He looks no more than a boy, but Darcy remembers what he’d looked like with Ron’s wand pointed at her, remembers the malice and triumph in his face when he was prepared to erase her memory, while she could do nothing but wait for it to happen.

Lockhart pushes the door open, still smiling his handsome smile, striding towards them and completely oblivious to the way Darcy’s hands are now balled into fists, the way her eyes flash with anger, the way her jaw sets and works furiously as he grows closer. “Hello there!” he cries jovially, still looking into Darcy’s face. “I expect you’d like my autograph, would you?”

Something in Darcy snaps before she can stop herself. “Your _autograph_?” she shouts, and without a second thought, Darcy lunges, wanting nothing more than to wrap her hands around his throat and shake him. Emily quickly grabs Darcy’s arms before she can reach the now shaken looking Lockhart, and Darcy struggles. “Let me _go_! I’m going to _kill_ him!”

“Darcy!” Hermione shrieks, covering her mouth with her hands. “Darcy, _stop_!”

“Kill me?” Lockhart asks, frowning slightly. And then, he smiles again, moving closer to Darcy and looking her face over critically. “Do we know each other?”

“You tried to wipe my memory!” Darcy hisses in his face, making him take a hasty step backwards, the vacant look in his eyes still there. “You would have wiped my memory—you would have left me for St Mungo’s to look after, and you’re asking me if I want your _autograph_?”

“Darcy, he doesn’t remember—leave him,” Emily whispers soothingly, only letting go of Darcy once she’s certain Lockhart will not be strangled to death. “Professor Lockhart, where’s your ward? We’ll walk you back.”

Lockhart’s eyes leave Darcy’s face for the first time, and he smiles at Emily. His smile falters, but not as if she’s insulted him, as Darcy had. “Aren’t you… _something_ ,” he says breathlessly. Lockhart reaches out for Emily’s hand and brings it to his lips. “You are beautiful, aren’t you?”

“Oh,” Emily giggles, her cheeks turning pink. “Thank you.”

“Gilderoy! Where have you gone, my sweet?”

Darcy, her chest heaving and the world seemingly spinning, watched as a Healer comes running down the corridor towards Lockhart, reaching him in no time at all. She wishes the Healer would go away—she doesn’t feel half done shouting at Lockhart, and his neck looks the perfect place for her fingers to grasp, to pay him back in kind for what he’d tried to do to, not only Darcy, but Harry and Ron and Ginny. Lockhart would have left Ginny to her fate, would have put a Memory Charm on Darcy, Harry, and Ron that likely would have made them a drooling mess, a body for a bed at St Mungo’s. Nothing about this scene makes Darcy feel any sympathy for her old Professor—a coward of a man who wouldn’t ben attempt to brave the Chamber of Secrets—a coward of a man who didn’t even bother to help three kids and a seventeen-year-old girl as they ventured into the unknown, who trembled with fear with every step.

“...it’s so nice of you all to come and see him,” the Healer says in a low voice, and Darcy looks around at her friends quickly, who all look mildly uncomfortable. “He never gets visitors, so this must be a real treat for him. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you—Miss, are you all right? You look quite pale. Are you feeling well?”

Everyone’s eyes flick to Darcy again, who’s still looking at Lockhart. Darcy inhales slowly, forcing herself to look at the Healer. She tries to smile, but she’s sure it looks more like a sneer than anything. “I’m fine,” she murmurs.

The Healer takes Lockhart by the arm and begins to lead him back towards the ward. Harry and Ron give each other a sideways look, promising not to stay for long, and they follow. Hermione and Ginny trail after them, but Darcy stays put. “Come on, Darcy,” Emily sighs, taking her by the hand and attempting to pull Darcy along. “Only for a few minutes. You heard what the Healer said. He doesn’t get any visitors!”

“Does it look like I care in the slightest how many visitors he gets?” Darcy retorts hotly, pulling her hand away from Emily’s. “He deserves to be in that ward, with no visitors after what he tried to do to us—after what he did to all those witches and wizards for his stupid books.”

“Darcy, it’ll only be for a few moments, and we’ll laugh about it afterward,” Emily smiles, and Darcy scowls back at her. Behind Emily, Lockhart and the Healer, followed by Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, enter the ward and close the door behind them. “Come on, everyone will be waiting for us.”

“Emily,” Darcy spits, wishing she could understand why her blood is pounding and pumping in her ears, why the sight of Lockhart has made her so angry. “I’m not going in there. I don’t give a damn about him.”

“I’m sure Harry doesn’t either,” Emily chuckles. “Just for a moment. Wonder if Gemma knows he’s here? How come she didn’t tell us?”

_Probably because she’s tactful enough to have never brought him up to my face_ , Darcy thinks, grateful. Still scowling, her heart thumping violently against her chest, she allows Emily to lead her into the ward, but the scene is not what she expects in the slightest.

Ginny is still seated at the side of Lockhart’s bed, several unsigned photographs in her lap as Lockhart talks casually to her about his fans (Darcy growls at him, turning away); Harry, Ron, and Hermione and turned towards someone else completely, however—two people: one, a certain Neville Longbottom, a flushing and stuttering mess, and the other, an older woman with a hat that is topped with a stuffed vulture, who is shaking Hermione’s hand firmly and who must be Neville’s grandmother. Emily sneaks off to Lockhart’s bedside, smiling sweetly at him and listening to him talk. The woman sees Darcy enter, eyes widening in comprehension, and she takes a hasty step forward, looking her over and extending her hand.

“You must be Darcy Potter,” Mrs. Longbottom says abruptly, and Darcy softens at the sight of Neville, shaking his grandmother’s hand and forcing herself to smile. “Neville talks about you all the time. Dumbledore’s brought you back to help teach, hasn’t he? Alongside that Snape boy?”

The idea of Mrs. Longbottom referring to Snape as ‘that Snape boy’ almost makes her laugh. “Yes,” Darcy answers, blushing slightly, though not as much as Neville. Lockhart completely forgotten, Darcy wishes she could hide Neville away, or at least make him smile. “Neville’s a wonderful student. You should be very proud.”

“Yes, well…” Mrs. Longbottom gives Darcy a curious look, as if Darcy had just lied to her face. “Unfortunately, Neville hasn’t inherited his father’s talent…” She jerks her head over her shoulder, towards the other end of the ward.

“What?” Ron asks loudly, peering down to where Mrs. Longbottom has just nodded towards. Darcy’s heart races, and as much as she doesn’t want to look, as much as she doesn’t want to embarrass Neville, her curiosity gets the better of her and she tries to catch sight of someone in the end bed. “Is that your dad down there, Neville?”

Neville blushes harder, catching Darcy’s eye for a split second before Mrs. Longbottom gives him a sharp look. “What’s this? Haven’t you told your friends about your parents, Neville?” When Neville doesn’t answer, she continues. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Neville! You should be _proud_!”

“I’m not ashamed,” Neville murmurs, holding his hands behind his back and keeping his eyes now fixed on his shoes.

“Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Mrs. Longbottom frowns, suddenly looking very much like Gemma when preparing to reveal a particularly juicy piece of gossip. “My son and his wife—they were Aurors—tortured into insanity by You-Know-Who’s followers.”

Harry and Darcy exchange a long look as Hermione, Ginny, and Ron suddenly seem horrified. Emily, still by Lockhart’s bed, pretends not to be listening in, but the color has drained from her face upon Mrs. Longbottom’s honest confession. Hermione and Ginny clap their hands to their mouths, and Ron’s eyes go wide as saucers. Despite having known this already, hearing it from Mrs. Longbottom’s mouth seems to make it real, and Darcy suddenly feels a surge of sympathy for Neville, wanting to hold him to her chest and kiss his head. But before she can even attempt to cheer or comfort him, a woman in a long nightdress comes shuffling towards them—a woman with a face that looks almost familiar, but much older than the face Darcy knows. She seems close to death, Neville’s mother, looking exactly how Darcy would expect someone who’d been tortured so badly to look. Her hair is shock white, her face tired and thin and drawn—more a corpse than Sirius had looked upon their meeting in the Shrieking Shack.

Neville’s mother holds out her hand towards Neville, palm up, revealing an empty gum wrapper. “Thanks, mum,” he mutters, taking it from his mother’s hand and pocketing it.

It isn’t long after that that Mrs. Longbottom urges Neville along. Before leaving, she pats Darcy on the cheek firmly. “Keep an eye on him,” she whispers, a command instead of a plea. “Watch out for him.”

Darcy nods weakly. She would still have done so even if Mrs. Longbottom had not asked. Offering Neville a small smile as he walks out, Darcy leaves the room a few feet behind them, ignoring everyone’s questions of where she is going or if she knew about Neville’s parents. All she knows is that she cannot be in there any longer—she cannot be in there with Lockhart and Neville’s insane parents. Darcy’s stomach churns violently and she wonders if it is crueler to have parents who no longer remember you, or parents that are dead. She wishes there was something she could have done for Neville—a way to make him understand that she feels sorry for him, that she didn’t want it to happen like that.

Darcy throws herself into a nearby restroom, thankful that it’s empty. She grips the edges of a sink and looks at herself in the mirror. The Healer was right—she _is_ quite pale. Darcy begins to cry before she can stop herself, but she isn’t sure exactly why everything hits her so hard at the moment. Maybe it was their sudden meeting with Lockhart, the violent reminder of the Chamber of Secrets hitting her full force like a speeding train. Or maybe it was the sight of Neville’s parents, and the stark reminder of what could happen to people she loves during this war.

On the way back to Grimmauld Place (Mundungus seems to drive slightly better without Emily snapping at him), Darcy feels she has more to think about than she did on the way to St Mungo’s.

“You all right?” Lupin asks again, taking care to survey her face, to take in her red-rimmed eyes.

“I’m fine,” she replies, turning again to look out the window.

“She almost killed Professor Lockhart today,” Emily adds distractedly, holding her nails up to her face and doing everything she can not to look at Lupin. “If I hadn’t stopped her, she would have strangled him, I’m sure.”

“Lockhart? Your old teacher?” Lupin asks, too interested in Emily’s admission. “You saw him?”

Darcy hums in response, grateful no one brings up Neville or his parents.

* * *

No one really pays much attention while Darcy messes with the piano. Despite Darcy’s mixed feelings about Snape’s gift, she had plucked a few pages labeled _Clair de Lune_ , playing it clumsily as she works out the sheet music. For hours she sits at the piano working it out, writing tips to herself and hints in the margins, feeling very foolish and childish with the entire house being able to hear her. Perhaps the talent is something that never goes away after years (if she can even call it a talent), but Darcy works her fingers over the keys over and over, until she’s able to play the first part of the song relatively well, but she struggles with the faster pace. But this time, the song is not for her, or Lupin, or Snape—the song is for Neville, who will never hear her play it for him, who will never know that she’d thought of him upon meeting again at Hogwarts. The song, an ode to Neville, a song that, to her, cries _I see you, I hear you, I feel you, I am with you, I know, I know, I know your pain._

When she finishes, her fingers cramping terribly, she gives them a shake and turns to Lupin, seated on the sofa, listening. He’s been there since arriving back from St Mungo’s, his nose buried in a book as Darcy plays. “How was that?” she asks.

Lupin doesn’t even look up from his book. “Good, but I like the other one better.”

“Why?”

“Because it reminds me of you.”

“Why?”

Lupin chuckles, but he isn’t smiling. “A sad and beautiful song for a sad and beautiful girl.

Darcy hesitates, clenching her jaw. “Put your book down and look at me,” she says quietly, and he does, the firelight dancing across his face, casting shadows on his jaw. Darcy wants to kiss along that jaw covered with coarse hair, kiss down his throat and feel the soft groans vibrating against her lips. She wants to worship every inch of him, touch him in ways only she’s ever touched him before. She stands from the bench and sits down beside Lupin, his eyes following her. “I saw Neville today, at St Mungo’s. He was visiting his parents. They share a ward with Lockhart.”

Within a matter of seconds, all the color drains from Lupin’s face. He closes his book and sets it aside, looking at a complete loss for words. “They—you saw—Frank? And Alice?”

“I saw his mother.” Darcy shrugs. “There’s no way I’m going to make it out of this alive and well, is there?”

“Don’t say that,” he whispers, sounding slightly choked with emotion. Lupin hand finds her face, his thumb tracing the sharp line of her jaw, brushing over her chin. “Please.”

“Sleep with me tonight,” she breathes, heart leaping in her throat. “I don’t want to sleep alone.”

“Is that what you want?”

Darcy nods again.

“All right.”

The callused pad of his thumb touches her mouth, tracing her bottom lip. Darcy kisses it lightly, just barely. Lupin only looks curiously at her, as if truly looking at her for the first time in his life, and Darcy closes her eyes as he slides his thumb past her lips and into her warm mouth. When she feels his fingers tense against her face, she opens her eyes again. Her heart beats still faster at the sight of his lips parting, his eyelashes fluttering, a soft sigh escaping him when her tongue flicks against the tip of his thumb. She suddenly aches for him, wanting nothing more than to let him take her right here, in the drawing room on the sofa, the song of their lovemaking echoing throughout the house instead of piano song. It excites her, makes her heart throb and her stomach lurch and her head dizzy.

Lupin pulls his thumb from her mouth quickly, as if just realizing what he’s done. Darcy frowns, moving to get up, knowing she’s going to have to be subjected to his multiple apologies, his apologies for using her, for not being able to be with her, for hurting her. She doesn’t want to hear it. Not now—not after everything that’s happened over the past few days, not after everything that’s happened just today. She wants to be his again, just for a night, just to remember what it used to feel like.

“Where are you going?” he asks quickly, reaching out and grabbing hold of her wrist.

“Escaping,” she says softly, pulling her hand away from Lupin, “before you start apologizing.”

“Is that what you think I’m going to do?”

“It’s what you always do,” Darcy replies, rubbing her wrist distractedly. _Why am I being so rude? Is it so wrong for me to want to be touched? Is it so wrong for me to want him to touch me_? “Forgive me for not wanting to hear it tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” Lupin rasps, catching himself immediately after the words leave him. Darcy almost thinks he’s going to apologize again, but he closes his mouth and only gives her an apologetic look. “Darcy, come back here.”

Darcy does as he says, in no mood to refuse him. She sits back down on the sofa, their knees touching lightly, warmth flowing through her at this simple contact. “What?” she asks.

Lupin looks over his shoulder to make sure the door is closed. It is, but he lowers his voice anyway. “Why did Severus give you that…gift?”

_Because he loves me_. But Darcy will never say that in Lupin’s company. She’s sure he already knows it—after all, he’s brought it up before, but she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. Or maybe she doesn’t say it because she isn’t quite sure it’s true. Of course it seems like the reasonable answer, but Darcy would be humiliating if there was another reason behind Snape’s gift. Instead, she only sits there, blinking at Lupin, her eyes wide and innocent.

He seems to understand well enough. There’s anger in his eyes—they’re cold and hard, no warmth at all in them. But Darcy doesn’t flinch. She waits for it to pass, waits for Lupin to give her some unnecessary speech on Snape, just like Sirius might. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it once more, closes it again. “Will you play me that song again? The first one?” he asks, startling Darcy with his sudden request. “Moonlight Sonata?”

Darcy raises an eyebrow. “You’re not tired of it yet?”

“No,” Lupin answers. “I could listen to you play all night, all day.”

“Yeah? The same two songs over and over?”

He gives her a tired, toothy grin. “The same two songs, over and over.”

She pauses, not wanting to return to the piano again tonight, not wanting to open the old wound anymore—the idea that she enjoys anything Aunt Petunia wanted her to enjoy partially disgusts her. Poetry is one thing—Aunt Petunia had never cared about the meanings of the poetry, only that Darcy recited them correctly. But the piano lessons had been to make Darcy look like she had some talent, to impress boys and their mothers, to entertain at tea parties. And after hearing Sirius’s pleasantly surprised reaction to Darcy’s knowledge of poetry and slight skill with the piano, it had certainly made her uneasy.

“Do you think I’m like Aunt Petunia?” Darcy asks him, knowing he will tell her what she wants to hear, but hoping he’ll at least sound genuine and honest about it. There’s something desperate to her tone, the need for comfort.

“No,” Lupin answers, tucking her hair behind her ears. He doesn’t elaborate, or offer any explanation to his answer, but he is firm about it. Confident and firm and absolutely sure of himself. “I don’t.”

Without warning, Darcy begins to cry again, holding her face in her hands, her palms growing wet with her salty tears. Lupin puts a gentle hand on the back of her head, bringing her to his chest, allowing her to cry against his shirt. Her head feels full to bursting, full with thoughts she never wants to think of again—the thought of Snape actually caring about her in a way Darcy wishes he wouldn’t; Mr. Weasley in St Mungo’s, having been attacked by Voldemort’s snake; Gilderoy Lockhart with his memory completely gone, not forced to remember the Chamber of Secrets or the fact that he’d tried to wipe her memory; Neville’s mother, hobbling up to him with not a gift, but trash, unable to fully recognize her own son.

After a minute, Darcy lifts her head to look at him. Her hair sticks to her cheeks where the tears have left her skin damp, but Lupin pushes it back out of her face, looking down at her with one arm around her, one warm hand upon her face. How badly she wants to stay like this forever, to choose to stay with him here at a Grimmauld Place, to wake to his kisses, to trace the muscles in his shoulders with her fingers as he sleeps soundly beside her.

“I love you,” she tells him, her voice hoarse. She can see the internal conflict he’s facing just by looking at him. “You don’t have to say it back, but I need you to know that in case something happens—to either of us—”

“Stop,” Lupin says quickly, looking troubled. “Stop talking to me like you’re never going to see me again.”

“It’s all I ever think about.”

Lupin looks down at her, and she blushes furiously, knowing she must look ridiculous, her cheeks blotchy and tear-stained. “We’re on borrowed time here, you know that? Once you leave again for Hogwarts, and I for my duties for the Order—”

“I know,” she whispers, not wanting him to finish the sentence.

“You know?”

“Yes,” Darcy says again. “I know. Borrowed and stolen time. Don’t think I don’t know what we’ve been doing.”

“And you’re…all right with that?” Lupin seems guilty of something, but Darcy only smiles weakly at him, nodding very slightly. Still holding her head close to him, he leans in and brushes his nose against hers. He lets out a sigh against her lips. “Your parents would kill me, and I mean that in the most literal sense.”

Darcy tires of his talking, so close to his mouth. She kisses him softly, touching his rough cheek and pulling away before he has time to do it himself. But to her relief, he gives her a tired smile, moving to kiss her again—

There’s a rapping on the drawing room door and Mrs. Weasley opens the drawing room door just as Darcy and Lupin jump as far away from each other as possible on the sofa. Mrs. Weasley eyes them suspiciously. “Darcy, time for bed. It’s getting late. And keep the door open.”

Darcy sighs heavily, looking away from Mrs. Weasley and rubbing her eyes. “I’ll be up in a minute, Mrs. Weasley.” She scowls at Mrs. Weasley’s back when she leaves, leaving the door wide open. “She’s worse than Sirius. You’d think I was thirteen, the way she treats me.”

Lupin chuckles. “How do you think I feel?” Sighing contently, lazing on the sofa, he’s a handsome, disheveled mess, she thinks. “It’s me she doesn’t trust, not you.”

“I should go to bed then, before she comes back and drags me by the ear.”

“Leave your door open for me,” he whispers, suddenly very serious again.

“No,” Darcy says quickly, and Lupin looks bewildered at her sudden response. “Unless you want to be woken by a herd of elephants walking into the room. And by a herd of elephants I mean Harry, Hermione, and Ron.”

This makes him laugh. “Don’t you ever get _any_ privacy anywhere you go?”

Darcy shakes her head, getting to her feet and stretching. “I don’t know the meaning of the word, and I don’t think I ever have.”


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i told y’all the chapters were getting longer.......SORRY

“I hear you, I really do, but—I’m sorry, I’m not really understanding how this is a bad thing.”

“How are you _not_ understanding this is a bad thing?”

“Because you don’t have to worry about him being cruel to you anymore.”

“If you think that’s going to stop him from insulting me every so often, then you clearly don’t know Professor Snape.”

“Darcy, listen,” Gemma sighs exasperatedly, sitting up on Darcy’s bed and smiling weakly. “You’re overthinking this. We’ve been telling you for months—or rather, dropping hints—that Snape cares about you. Why does it bother you so much?”

“Because—because look what he _is_! Look what he’s done,” Darcy shrieks, pacing restlessly in her bedroom, running her fingers through her hair. She had been so happy to see Gemma this morning—so happy to see the one person she felt comfortable talking to about this. It feels damn good to be talking about it now. “He was a Death Eater, Gemma—he’s got the Dark Mark branded on his arm—” Darcy freezes, looking at Gemma apologetically. “Sorry.”

“No, go on,” Gemma says, but Darcy thinks she catches sight of those dark eyes flashing for a moment.

“He would have killed both Sirius and Remus without a second thought,” Darcy continues, a bit softer, feeling guilty for shouting. “He is cruel to Harry, and most everyone associated with Harry. Sirius says he mocks him for not being able to do anything for the Order, he’s the reason Remus isn’t at Hogwarts anymore, he’s the reason—”

“—that you’re alive.” Gemma shrugs her shoulders innocently, infuriating Darcy. But she knows Gemma is right, and there’s no point in arguing against it. Narrowing her eyes, Gemma tilts her head curiously, considering Darcy as she resumes her pacing around the bedroom. “Has anything ever happened between you and Snape, Darcy?”

Darcy blushes, looking quickly away from Gemma and making sure to avoid her eyes completely. “He’s held me,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around herself protectively. “When he pulled me from the lake, he held me. And just the other day, when he came to tell me about Umbridge, he—I got him some gloves for a gift, and he—he sort of reached out and—” Darcy hesitates, moving over to Gemma and taking her head, showing her what Snape had done by brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “Whenever Umbridge hurts me, he’s gentle. He’s soft. He’s worried.”

Gemma gives Darcy a puzzled look. “I’m not following, Darcy. Nowhere is it written than when someone loves you, you must love them back.” She blinks, narrowing her eyes even further, until they’re reduced to slits. “Unless you _do_ love him?”

“No,” Darcy snaps, before there can be any doubt. She begins to pace again, needing to move, needing to get out of the house, needing to breathe fresh air again. “Not like that.” Pausing before the mirror, Darcy takes a good long look at herself, wondering if Snape doesn’t recognize the features Darcy has inherited from James, or if he simply chooses to ignore them. “He has done all of those horrible things, and yet…I know he would never hurt me. I trust him with my life, and…”

Gemma raises her eyebrows, looking as if she already knows what Darcy is going to say.

“I know Snape could never replace dad,” Darcy whispers, ashamed that she’s saying it outloud, afraid someone will overhear her and mock her. She hates herself for saying it, for even thinking it. All of the energy she’d put towards hating him, all wasted. “He could never replace James…”

“But he could replace Sirius?”

Darcy doesn’t say anything for a moment. She’s glad that Gemma understands, glad that she doesn’t press Darcy for an explanation, glad that she doesn’t turn her nose up at the thought. Part of the reason Darcy feels so deeply about the entire situation is because of what people might say—what her friends might say—if she admitted to them that she saw Snape as the closest thing to a father figure she’s known for a while. Sirius, locked away at Grimmauld Place and accessible only during the weekends, is a strong contestant, but sometimes Darcy doesn’t think Sirius truly has her best interests at heart. He’s reckless, she knows, and restless, and hates the idea of Darcy and Lupin being alone in the same room together, despite having had months to process their previous relationship. Maybe Snape mocks her relationship, but there is no doubt in her mind that Snape knows she loves Lupin, knows that Lupin is one of the most important things to her and accepts it, whether he wants to or not.

“There’s nothing shameful about it,” Gemma says gently, as if Darcy has laid her emotions out on the bed for her to read plainly. Darcy looks sheepishly at her, feeling the urge to cry. “If he is good to you, then let him be.”

“I don’t want him to love me because he loved my mother—because I remind him of her.” Darcy opens her desk drawer, pulling a loose cigarette out from inside of it, putting it to her lips, and fumbling with the matches. Once she gets the end lit, Darcy takes a long pull, her heart racing. “I don’t want him to love me at all. It would just be better if everything went back the way it was, when we hated each other—”

“What? Last year?” Gemma chuckles, lying back on the pillows. “Because Snape didn’t hate you last year, and you didn’t hate him. Listen, you could have some fun with this. For instance, now that he’s…well, maybe _made a move_ isn’t completely accurate, but maybe now that he’s openly affectionate in his own little way, he’ll tell you what happened between he and your mother all those years ago.”

Darcy shifts uncomfortably on her feet, shaking her head, letting the cigarette burn as it rests between her fingers. “But I don’t know that I want to know at all,” she says desperately, frowning. “The only thing I know is that—whatever it is—it’s going to make me think differently of Snape or of Sirius, dad, and Remus. And I know that none of them—besides dad, of course—will give me an unbiased account of what happened.”

“Just go ask Lupin,” Gemma answers, as if Darcy hadn’t even thought of that. “He’ll tell you the truth, won’t he?”

“Not if he thinks it’ll make him look bad. It might be more of the truth than what I’ll get from Sirius, though.”

Gemma exhales loudly through her straight nose. “I think you should just ask Snape. You know more than anyone to take whatever he says with a grain of salt,” she says. “And Sirius. You know them all well enough to figure out the truth.”

“I don’t want to know the truth,” Darcy says firmly, decisively, looking at herself in the mirror again. “Not now. Not with everything else going on.”

Gemma shrugs again, picking up _The Bell Jar_ off Darcy’s nightstand and flicking through the pages. She stops about halfway through the book, squinting at the small writing in the margin, turning the book sideways to read it better. “Maybe it’s better to just know,” she continues, thumbing more slowly through the book. “You’re getting yourself worked up. You’re overthinking it. I bet it’s not half as bad as what you think it is.”

“Right, but isn’t it better not to know? Ignorance is bliss, right?” Darcy feels herself start to panic again, sees the lack of color in her face.

“You think so?” Gemma asks flatly, not looking away from the book.

“‘How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot! The world forgetting by the world forgot.’” Darcy tucks her hair behind her ears, sighing deeply. “‘Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d.’”

“Darcy, it’s very cute when you recite poetry, but I wish you’d stop doing it to me. Half the time, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Darcy blushes. “Sorry.”

“Heard a rumor you shacked up with a certain Remus Lupin last night,” Gemma says quickly, seemingly keen to get Darcy off the subject of Snape. “Anything interesting you’d like to tell me? Or anything juicy?”

“Nothing happened,” Darcy scoffs, blushing harder. “I…had nightmares.”

She’d only gotten two hours of decent sleep in between all the crying and thrashing. She had lay awake for hours at first, with Lupin sleeping peacefully beside her, the backs of their fingers barely touching. And when she had drifted off to sleep, it was to find herself trapped in nightmares of the worst sort—the darkness of the Chamber of Secrets crushing her from all sides, the noise the basilisk made as it slid across the damp ground, the shivers it had sent up her spine.

Gemma falters. “All right, well how about this? A celebration party—a little get-together here to celebrate my potion becoming available to the public? Maybe even a New Year’s party. I can be here for it.”

“What do you want to do?” Darcy asks, glad Gemma’s changed the subject. The feeling of spiders crawling on the back of her neck makes Darcy slam a palm to her skin, but Gemma doesn’t flinch or look at all surprised by her sudden movement.

“I’ve got a plan…listen…”

* * *

“You’re stepping on my feet!”

“I’ve been drinking,” Darcy laughs, allowing Gemma to twirl her, red hair slapping them both in the face. The holiday music floating through the drawing room has everyone laughing and dancing—or most people, anyway. Fred and George dance wildly with Emily and Tonks, clearing a circle in the middle of the drawing room lest anyone get hit by their flailing arms.

When the song ends, partners change; Emily convinces Ron (whose ears turn bright red) to dance with her, Sirius takes Gemma’s place with Darcy, and over her godfather’s shoulder, she tries not to watch as Tonks asks Lupin cheerily if he’d like to dance. Her heart soars when she barely hears him say, “I don’t dance.”

“ _Don’t dance_ my ass,” Gemma chuckles, grabbing Lupin’s sleeve and pulling him to his feet. “Come on, you great _lump_.”

Lupin stumbles over his own awkward feet as Gemma forces him into position, laughing at his uncomfortable expression. She smiles brightly at Darcy, earning herself a wide smile from Darcy in return. “My camera’s on the sofa, Hermione,” Darcy calls out to her. Lupin protests weakly, but Darcy raises her eyebrows at him. “I _told_ you I was going to take pictures.”

Hermione takes the picture of a disgruntled Lupin and an excited Gemma, sitting on the sofa with Harry and waving the photograph in her hand to dry it. Darcy focuses her attention on Sirius again, her heart soaring probably more so due to the fact that Lupin had declined Tonks’ offer to dance.

She wishes, wholeheartedly, that Sirius could be like this all the time—smiling, laughing, twirling her in the drawing room to music, counting down the hours until the new year begins— _a fresh start_ , he’d called it. Darcy doesn’t see how Snape could ever replace Sirius like this, and her heart bursts with love for her godfather, love she has never felt for her old Potions Master. Their past argument is forgotten, words that shouldn’t have been said, an unnecessary silent apology hangs in the air between them, but Darcy doesn’t care anymore. All she cares about is that everyone she loves is here, dancing and enjoying each other’s company. All she cares about is that Lupin is smiling now, allowing Gemma to take the lead as she pushes and pulls him around the drawing room, every so often looking over at Darcy and blushing very slightly. All she cares about is Harry grinning at her from the sofa, Emily winking at her, Mrs. Weasley dancing with Bill—being apart of a family.

She looks into Sirius’ handsome face again, flushed and his forehead slightly damp. Over the noise from everyone else and the music that muffles conversation, Darcy stops dancing, still holding on tight to Sirius’ hands. “I love you,” she says, very loudly and very clearly, relishing the wide grin that splits his face.

Sirius sighs happily, brings his hands to her face to cup her cheeks, and struggles with speech for a moment. “Do you want a drink?”

Darcy laughs. “Yes, I would.”

She watches him leave the drawing room with a spring in his step, and is surprised to feel someone tap her shoulder. Darcy spins quickly to find Harry, blushing, awkwardly attempt to align Darcy with him to dance. Clumsier and slightly shorter than she is, they both chuckle for a moment until he finally submits and allows Darcy to lead. Harry’s palms are sweaty and he avoids her eyes, a pink tint to his cheeks. But Darcy can’t remember ever loving Harry more than she does right now, fifteen years’ worth of love built up in her heart for her little brother.

“Let’s run away, Harry,” she says, smiling at him. He’s grown so much just in the past few months, whether it’s from what he’s seen or just the age that he’s at, she isn’t sure. Darcy remembers coming back to Hogwarts for her sixth year several inches taller and with an actual chest worthy of a sixteen-year-old. “You and me.”

“And leave all this behind?” Harry asks teasingly with a raised eyebrow. He looks around the room and Darcy with him. Gemma laughs obnoxiously as Lupin spins her until she’s so dizzy she falls to the ground, tilting her head back and howling with laughter.

Darcy looks back into Harry’s face. “This is what I’ve always wanted,” she whispers incredulously, unable to stop smiling. “I feel like—I mean, I have waited nearly my whole life for this, and I have it now.”

“You deserve it,” Harry smiles. “You deserve it more than anyone I know.”

Darcy doesn’t want to cry—not now, not even happy tears. She decides she’ll at least not kiss him and hug him while in front of everyone, and as she opens her mouth to speak, Lupin appears at Harry’s shoulder and clears his throat awkwardly. Harry turns.

“Harry,” Lupin begins, meeting Darcy’s eyes only for a second. “Do you think, er—could I cut in?”

There’s something intimate—something that makes her heart race—about Harry handing Darcy off to Lupin with a poorly stifled smile. Lupin takes her hands in his as Harry goes back to the sofa to a grinning Hermione and Ron, takes her hands as he has done so many times in the past. Darcy settles her hand lightly on his shoulder and looks sheepishly around the room as Lupin takes the first step.

“Everyone is watching us,” Darcy says breathlessly, hardly able to breathe at all with her heart jumping in her throat. It feels like the whole world is watching them, just as the entire world had looked on when she’d arrived at the Yule Ball with Ludo Bagman.

Lupin glances around the room, and when the firelight catches his face just right, Darcy can see the pink tint to his cheekbones. He looks back at her before he ends up looking into Tonks’ face. “Are you embarrassed?” he asks, frowning.

“No,” she says quickly, blushing hard. “No—I’m not.”

His easy smile comes on so abruptly that it startles Darcy. Lupin spins and sways with her, borrows some of the techniques Gemma had shown him, laughing with her. Even when most everyone begins to file out, in need of drinks, Darcy and Lupin continue to laugh shyly, trodding on each other’s feet and holding onto each other a little tighter that Darcy thinks maybe necessary, but she loves it, she’s happy, and even though she can feel Sirius’ eyes upon her as well as Mrs. Weasley’s, she doesn’t care. When they begin to slow down, Darcy chuckles, resting her cheek upon his shoulder.

She doesn’t ever want to go back to Hogwarts. Every time she stays here at Sirius’ house, her resolution softens, and Darcy finds it harder and harder to return to school. She doesn’t ever want to go back to teaching in the dungeon classroom that chills her bones during the days Snape refuses to start a fire, doesn’t want to go back to the students who mock her openly in the corridors, doesn’t want to go back to Snape. Grimmauld Place may be moldy and dusty and the atmosphere cold sometimes, but Hogwarts is big and empty and lonely, and what is her empty bed at Hogwarts compared to a bed that’s hardly ever empty here at Grimmauld Place? And even when Gemma isn’t around, she could always slip into Lupin’s bed to wrap her arms around him, to pepper his exposed spine with featherlight kisses, to hear him sigh her name and remember that she has the power to undo him, remember that he is weak beneath her, under her gentle fingers and sweet kisses, submissive and helpless and utterly hers.

When Darcy lifts her head to smile up at Lupin, she catches sight of the expression on his face and she worries that she’s just said everything outloud. Either she has, or he can read her mind. The pretty smile that had graced his face a few moments ago is gone, his eyebrows knitted together in concentration, as if trying to comprehend her very thoughts, as if she’s spoken to him in some foreign language he can’t make sense of, as if she’s just proclaimed her love for him in front of the entire household. His jaw clenches and the hand holding hers slackens, the hand on her waist falls to his side.

“Remus,” Darcy whispers. “I—”

Lupin takes a step backwards, looking around the room sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. Without offering her an explanation, he makes his way out of the drawing room, leaving Darcy standing there confused and slightly hurt, blushing furiously as Sirius gives her an apologetic look.

Humiliated, Darcy chases after Lupin, not really sure why. “Remus, _wait_ —” she calls quietly, but he’s disappeared from view completely. Darcy checks the kitchen first, but all that’s in the kitchen are a few bottles of wine and and empty glasses. She continues up the stairs, down to his bedroom, hesitating outside of his door like she did just a few days ago. But he’d welcomed her into his bed then, had been perfectly content in having her sleep beside him, just like they used to.

Darcy knocks, and when she hears no answer, she opens the door very slightly to check if he’s inside. He is, it turns out, standing with his back to her, looking out the dark window. Turning to see who’s entered, Lupin tenses at the sight of her, purposefully avoiding her eyes, and Darcy has to wonder who else he would have expected to follow him upstairs.

She clears her throat, not daring to take a step closer, but closing the door behind her. Lupin pulls his wand out of his pocket, giving it a wave and the gas lamps spring to life around them, casting the room in an eerie, orange glow. It takes her a moment to gather her thoughts. “Have I done something?” Darcy finally asks.

“No,” he answers quickly, laughing to himself bitterly. “It’s nothing you’ve done.”

“If you want me to leave you, I will,” Darcy begins, blushing again. “But I’d much rather you just tell me what changed so suddenly that you couldn’t look me in the face.”

Lupin inhales deeply, dragging a hand down his scruffy face. Lifting his eyes, he meets Darcy’s, but his gaze is so pitiful that she wishes he’d look away. “You being here, with Sirius, I—” He sighs. “It’s a stark reminder for me who you are. His goddaughter. The only daughter of my old friend.”

“Forgive me,” Darcy laughs incredulously, taking a careful step forward. “But I thought we were past that. It’s a little late for doubts now, isn’t it? After all we’ve said and done?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and then checks his watch. Instinctively, Darcy glances at hers, as well. Seven minutes to midnight. Something about the time seems to instill in Lupin some form of recklessness. “You’re impossible,” he says, and Darcy blinks in surprise, wanting to argue, but so caught off guard that she doesn’t know quite how to respond. “You are, without a doubt, one of the most—the most _tenacious_ girl I have ever met.”

Darcy opens and closes her mouth, unsure if she’s being complimented or insulted. Instead she settles with: “What?”

“I tell myself everyday that I will not come back here during weekends, that I will not force myself to be with you, and every weekend I find myself here, _torturing_ myself by relishing every smile that you send my way, every touch, every word spoken to me.” Lupin speaks quickly, running his hands through his hair. “I keep telling myself, maybe this weekend will be the weekend you choose to stay, to turn your back on Hogwarts, on Umbridge, on Severus, and listen to what we’ve been telling you for months—that Harry is not solely your responsibility.”

Darcy scoffs. “No one is forcing you to be here with me. _I’m_ not forcing you to be here. You were the one who told me I wasn’t going to be seeing much of you, and look how that turned out.”

Lupin ignores her, checking his watch again. Darcy does the same. Three minutes to midnight. “And every weekend, there is another reason why I shouldn’t be here with you,” he continues, as if she hadn’t said a word. “The fact that you are James’ daughter, the fact that I have nothing to offer you but what few possessions I have in this room. I am reminded constantly that I have never been, and will never be, good enough for you.”

“Remus,” Darcy says clearly, taking another step closer. “What are you talking about?”

The expression on his face is pained. He checks his watch once more. One minute to midnight. “I should not want you the way that I do.”

“And what way is that?”

Lupin gives her an exasperated look. “Don’t tease me, kitten,” he says. “You know exactly what I mean.”

Darcy feels her heart throb violently against her chest. This is what she’s wanted, isn’t it? For him to love her the way she loves him? So why does it seem to hurt so much? “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’ve drank too much tonight, and there’s something about the beginning of a new year that is…far more exciting than it should be, and about five minutes ago, I had planned on kissing you at midnight, but I talked too much and now I’ve missed my mark.”

“You’re talking nonsense, you know that, don’t you?” Darcy asks, smiling weakly at him.

Lupin blushes slightly and he looks away from her again. “All right, fine—straight to the point, then.” He stands up straighter, takes a deep breath and says, “I wish it could be like this all the time.”

Darcy sighs, running a hand through her hair. The conversation has definitely sobered her up some. “We still have a few days.”

“A few days is nothing,” he frowns, beginning to pace, “when all I dream of is waking up next to you everyday.”

She doesn’t know why she says it—Darcy doesn’t want to hurt him, nor does she want the moment they’re sharing to evaporate within mere seconds, but she says it anyway. “Look, I’m going to be completely honest with you,” she tells him. “I think we rushed into things. The way I felt about you—I had never felt that way about anyone before, and I still haven’t. And I think we were both very lonely at Hogwarts—and I think we didn’t understand what we were getting into.”

Lupin stops his pacing, smiling in spite of himself, it seems. “You think I didn’t understand what I was getting into?” he asks, laughing as if the idea is ridiculous. “Darcy, when Dumbledore approached me for the job, he told me that you were troubled and lonely and complicated and frightened, and I didn’t think anything of it, because I _know_ what it is like to feel all of those things. I _loved_ those things about you—the way you made those silly imperfections perfect. You told me, the first time we ever sat together in front of the fire, that you loved Harry more than anything, and I accepted that. How could you not? I knew that it was never going to be easy, but I never anticipated caring _so_ much for you.”

Darcy purses her lips, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill. “Remus—”

“I never meant to rush into anything, I never meant to pressure you into anything, or force you to make hard choices—trust me, Darcy, I never meant to do any of that.” Lupin sits on the edge of his bed, and the mattress groans underneath him. The room seems quieter than before, the air completely still and suffocating—or is it his words having that effect on her, not the atmosphere? “If we rushed into anything, it was because I was absolutely in love with you, and I would have done anything for you—and I still would. And every time that you leave again for Hogwarts, I can’t help but imagine someone else kissing you, touching you, loving you all wrong—someone that isn’t me.”

For once, she’s struck dumb, completely speechless. Here is this man that she loves so much, telling her how much he loves her, telling her how much she means to him. It means more to her than Lupin could possibly know, and it makes her cry.

“Darcy, I am so sorry for what I did to you,” he whispers, shrugging his shoulders as if the words alone aren’t enough. Lupin gets slowly to his feet again, taking a few steps closer to her. “I’m so sorry for walking out on you. But if you stay here—with me—I promise you, you will never have to feel alone again.”

Darcy closes her eyes, knowing what she must do. It pains her in every way and breaks her heart, but she can’t stay. Her eyes flutter open again. “This is not the life that I would have chosen, but it is the life that I have been given, and I will not choose to throw away the life that I have worked so damn hard at. What happens when you wake up one morning and decide that I’m not what you want?”

“I would never think that about you.”

“You will,” Darcy says. “Everyone leaves. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s how it always will be.”

Lupin turns away. “Then I’ve made a fool of myself,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have just…assumed that you wanted what I do.”

Darcy moves closer, reaching out to touch his shoulder. She wants to look into his face, to smile at him, to let him know she loves him more than anything. Her fingers clasp his shoulder gently, and at her touch he turns so abruptly that Darcy stumbles backwards. Lupin catches her before she falls, kissing her hard. Darcy melts into him—there is no hesitation, no reluctance, no sign from either of them that they know, in a few days, this will end and they will carry on with their lives again.

They shuffle awkwardly towards the bed, Lupin’s fingers tangled in her hair, his other hand groping blindly for his wand, attempting to lock the door before someone can catch them in the act. The backs of his legs catch the mattress and he falls backwards, wrapping his arms around Darcy and bringing her with him.

Lupin’s mouth is sweet, his tongue tastes of wine, and Darcy almost protests loudly when he pulls away from her to adjust their positions on the bed, pulling her up all the way, allowing her legs to rest on either side of him. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he breathes, his chest heaving as he looks up at her. “I talked far too much, didn’t I?”

“You’re talking too much _now_ ,” Darcy chuckles, going to kiss him again, but a familiar looking girl on the nightstand catches her eye. Lupin narrows his eyes at her sudden silence, and looks over to where she’s staring, a smile growing on her face. She snatches the photograph off the nightstand, laughing. It’s the picture of her in his bed over a year ago, reading a book in nothing but her underwear, long legs stretched out in front of her, chest bare and bathed in sunlight. Grinning and flipping the picture around, she asks, “What is _this_?”

Lupin flushes harder than Darcy’s ever seen before. He covers his face with his hands. “Shut up.”

Still laughing, a slight tint to her cheeks too, Darcy throws the photograph back on the table, kissing his fingers. “Don’t be so ashamed,” she whispers, kissing the bit of forehead that’s exposed. Darcy pries his hands off his face, looking down into a face of complete embarrassment. “I’m flattered. Is that the only one you’ve kept?”

His face still red, he exhales loudly through his nose. “All right,” he confesses. “I may have kept a few more…not so innocent ones, but I’m sorry—you can have them all back—”

“You can keep them,” Darcy interrupts, relieved to him give her a small, sheepish smile. “I’ve got enough pictures of you. It’s only fair. Though, I’ve never used my pictures of you for anything so wicked and _sinful_ —”

“ _Enough_ ,” Lupin pleads, laughing in a wounded sort of way. “Are you finished mocking me now?”

“Hang on, I think I’ve got a few more jokes—”

“No more jokes,” he begs, wrapping his arms around her waist again. “ _Please_.”

“All right,” she says, kissing him softly on the lips. “No more jokes. Just think of it this way—tonight, at least, you don’t have to imagine.”

Lupin traces his teeth with his tongue, a sly grin on his face. “Cheeky,” he mutters, kissing her again, likely just to shut her up.

This is not the distant lovemaking they’d done over the summer, Darcy thinks. This is love bites over Lupin’s scarred chest and kisses on his Adam’s apple that make him groan, mouths everywhere they can reach, fingers touching places that haven’t been touched for months. It is heavy kissing and soft moans, tongues tasting bare flesh damp with sweat, fingers in Darcy’s mouth and sharp teeth marking her shoulder. And as he pounds in and out of her by the light of the moon through the streaked and grimy window, Darcy feels as if there are things he wants to say, things communicated with each thrust, with each touch.

_Mine, mine, mine_.

Darcy lets his hands roam over her body, lets him continue until her legs are shaking uncontrollably, lets him bite hard on the crook of her neck until he breaks skin and tiny, warm droplets of blood begin to drip down her skin. She submits to Lupin completely, hoping he understands the silent message she’s trying to convey through her submission, as well.

_Yours, yours, yours._

* * *

The clinking of a fork against Sirius’s champagne glass silences the kitchen at large, and everyone turns to face him.

Darcy has to admit—Gemma has always known how to throw a party. Celebrating Gemma and the start of a new year, everyone is in high spirits. While not quite a black-tie affair, everyone has definitely tried to look nice, which Darcy thinks a sign of respect for Gemma. Gemma looks radiant, however—her face flushed from pride and drink, dark hair pinned back at the base of her neck and wearing the glittering silver earrings Darcy had gotten her for Christmas, a playful smile constantly playing at her lips, the arrogant beauty shining full force tonight. Food is lined on the long trestle table, dishes half picked apart and empty bottles of wine and champagne and butterbeer cover the empty parts of the tabletop. Crackling music plays beneath the buzz of conversation, and Darcy takes a moment to look around as everyone settles.

Mrs. Weasley has done her best to keep the shouting and scolding to a minimum tonight, likely held back by Bill, who lingers at her side, sometimes visited by Ginny or Ron. Fred and George keep receiving the side-eye from their mother as they stay close to Mundungus, stopping their hushed conversation and fits of laughter to look at Sirius. Emily and Tonks haunt a corner of the kitchen, drinking and gossiping; Harry, Hermione, and Ron shuffle out of the shadows to get a better look at Sirius. Even Mad-Eye Moody has turned up for the celebration, drinking alone from his hip flask, his magical eye zooming around sickeningly.

Sirius holds his champagne glass up high, looking at Gemma with a small smile. Beaming, Gemma looks at Darcy first—on her right—to share a smile, and then at Lupin—on her left—elbowing him playfully in the ribs. “To Gemma,” Sirius says, and everyone lifts their glass to toast her. “Congratulations, and thank you on behalf of werewolves everywhere.”

“Are you the proper person to thank her on behalf of werewolves everywhere, Padfoot?” Lupin chuckles, raising his eyebrows at Sirius across the room.

“ _Speech_!” Fred and George call from Mundungus’ side, grinning wickedly. Gemma laughs, but shakes her head. “Speech! Speech! Speech!”

Gemma holds a hand up to quiet them, and Darcy’s almost shocked at how quickly they submit to her. “A quick speech so I can finally drink myself into a coma without having to speak again,” she says breathlessly, inhaling deeply and looking around the room. Her dark eyes sparkle. “It took a lot of work, and a lot of money and time, blood, sweat, and tears—” Gemma hooks her free arm around Lupin’s. “Or rather— _his_ blood, sweat, and tears.”

“I appreciate you giving credit where credit is due,” Lupin teases, glancing over the top of Gemma’s head to smile at Darcy.

“I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you for trusting me,” Gemma tells him, quickly turning to look at Darcy again. “Though unpleasant at times and very stressful, the last year was one of the happiest times of my life. I…very much looked forward to the evenings we spent together in Hogsmeade.” She hesitates, releasing Lupin’s arm and suddenly seeming very sheepish and very unlike herself. “I’m no good at these kinds of things, but…I want to thank everyone for trusting me, and for allowing me into their homes, when not many people would.”

Everyone cheers Gemma again, but the atmosphere has changed—at least in Darcy, Gemma, and Lupin’s corner, anyway. Sirius is still watching her. “You’ve always reminded me of Andromeda,” he continues, and Tonks shoots Gemma a winning smile from across the room. “You’re Darcy’s best friend, and you will always be welcome here whenever you need to escape the dreadful family you’ve been born into.”

“You’ve surprised us all, Smythe,” Mundungus slurs, holding up his goblet. “Who’d’ve thought?”

“You don’t need your family when you’ve got us,” Fred adds, and George nods in approval.

“I know what it’s like having a family like yours,” Sirius finishes, taking a long drink of his champagne and tossing his long hair out of his face. “The door of number twelve Grimmauld Place will always be open for you.”

Darcy clenches her jaw, looking at Gemma, expecting to see the familiar angry flash in her eyes, but there is none. She’s smiling at Sirius, but there’s something sad about her. Handing her glass of wine out to Darcy, she asks, “Can you hold this for me?”

“Are you all right?” Darcy frowns.

“Bathroom,” Gemma murmurs, smiling weakly as she excuses herself from the kitchen.

Darcy and Lupin inch closer to each other as Gemma disappears from view. Shoulders brushing, Lupin lowers a hand to the small of her back, making her blush. “She’s a sweet girl,” Lupin says, finishing his drink. “They shouldn’t have said those things to her.”

“What do you mean?” Darcy asks quickly, looking up at him. “It’s a compliment. Gemma’s far better than anyone in her family. She’s a good person.”

“Sirius hated his family,” Lupin explains in a low voice, glancing around the room to make sure no one is listening. Darcy keeps her eyes fixed on the threshold, waiting for Gemma to reappear with a genuine smile on her face. “His mother—well, you have an idea of what his mother was like. Had a younger brother, too. Regulus, a Death Eater. Sirius ran away from home he hated it so much, did you know?”

Darcy blinks in surprise, looking from Sirius to Lupin and back again. Emily’s cornered him, smiling sweetly and flipping her golden hair, but Sirius is too drunk to look uncomfortable at all. “He ran away?” Darcy breathes, shocked by this revelation. “But why? Where did he go?”

Lupin smiles down at her for a moment. “He went to James’ house. Stayed summers and holidays with them,” he answers. “He couldn’t have been older than sixteen at the time.”

“He went to my dad’s?” Darcy runs a hand through her hair, letting this sink in. “But what does this have to do with Gemma?”

“Sirius hated his family and sees himself in Gemma, I’m sure,” Lupin says, pulling her closer to him, his hand firm upon her waist. “He assumes she hates her family, as well.”

“She doesn’t,” Darcy replies quickly, drinking the last of her wine. “She loves her parents and they love her.”

“She hates their choices, their lifestyle. Sirius’s mother was a cruel and terrible woman, but I would not compare her to Gemma’s mother.”

“Do you know her? Gemma’s mother?”

“By reputation, and what Gemma’s told me about her.”

Darcy’s heart races. Is it just the alcohol slowing her brain down, or is this far too much brand new information for her to digest at normal speed? “Gemma’s told you about her mother? Why?” she asks again.

Lupin frowns, tilting his head slightly. “Because I’ve asked.”

“She’s been a while, hasn’t she?” Darcy glances wistfully at the doorway again. Acting on a whim, she puts the glasses down on the counter, takes Lupin by the hand, and they sneak towards the kitchen door, stopped only by Moody, his electric blue eye looking through the back of his head.

“Drawing room,” he mutters out of the gash that is his mouth.

Darcy continues to pull Lupin to the drawing room. The door is closed, but she pushes it open slowly, peering inside. Lupin gives her a gentle push through the door and he follows her closely. “Gemma?” she whispers. “You all right?”

She’s started a fire in the hearth, casting long shadows across the carpet. Gemma’s standing with her back to them, running her fingers lightly across the gold embroidery of the Black family tree. She touches her parents’ names, her own name, ignoring Darcy completely. Darcy approaches, standing beside Gemma.

“Do you remember our Sorting, Darcy?” Gemma asks suddenly, her voice soft and gentle. She lowers her hand from the tapestry, but doesn’t look away from it. “You were Sorted first, into Gryffindor, and I in Slytherin. You in the brave and noble House, and I in the evil House, where students were waiting to become Dark wizards.”

Darcy swallows hard, furrowing her brow.

“Everyone applauded you, even those in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Even Emily, someone who wasn’t famous, received the praise.” Gemma’s voice is bitter, biting, and cold now. She scrunches her nose. “People stared at me as I walked to the Slytherin table. They scowled at me, turned their noses up at me, and they didn’t even know me. Even you, Darcy, were wary of me at first, and even sometimes throughout sixth year.”

“There’s no shame in being in Slytherin,” Darcy whispers, resting her cheek lightly on Gemma’s shoulder, holding onto her arm. “I’m sorry—I was stupid.”

“I’m not blaming you for anything.” Gemma softens slightly, sighing heavily. “It’s just…everyone assumes because I was a Slytherin, or that because I am the daughter of Death Eaters, I _must_ be evil. I _must_ be a terrible person. They praise me for fighting You-Know-Who as if I am some sort of hero for being a decent person. No one praises you, Darcy—or you, Remus—because it’s expected of you. You were Gryffindors, you are good by nature.”

Gemma brushes her thumb over her name on the tapestry again.

“I love my family. I love my parents, and I have struggled with it for a long time. I have never once forgotten the things they’ve done or what they are.” Gemma laughs bitterly. “Sirius thinks being blasted off this tapestry is the sign of being a decent person, but I belong here, don’t I? I have played into the life, have made friends with people who have done terrible things, have gone to galas for things I quietly disapproved of. I _loved_ it—the glamour, the lavishness, the comforts, the reputation I was building.”

“That doesn’t make you a bad person,” Darcy whispers again.

Gemma touches one of the burn marks. “Andromeda Tonks,” she says softly. “Married a Muggle-born, Ted. That’s why she was blasted off here.” She moves her finger to another burn mark. “Sirius’ uncle. Blasted off because he left money for Sirius.” And then her finger goes to the place where Darcy knows Sirius’ name used to be. “Burned for running away because he wanted _nothing_ to do with this life.”

Darcy lifts her head from Gemma’s shoulder, her neck aching. She looks over her shoulder at Lupin, hoping he’ll have some words of comfort to offer her, but he only exchanges an uneasy glance with Darcy. “Gemma,” she breathes, hoping to restore Gemma’s usual behavior, wanting to see her smile. “They don’t understand. They don’t understand because you haven’t told them.”

“What am I supposed to say?” Gemma asks coldly. “Despite the fact my parents are Death Eaters, I still love them more than anything? That I am too much of coward to even marry anyone who isn’t a pureblood out of fear of being disowned? That I am too much of a coward to leave that life behind because I was happy? I would break my mother’s heart.”

Lupin touches Darcy’s shoulder, and she takes a step back from Gemma, closer to him.

“I won’t be able to live this double life forever,” Gemma whispers. “Soon, I will have to choose one life and live with with the consequences. The choice does not come as easily to me as it did to Sirius.” There’s a heavy silence that follows these words, and Darcy and Lupin exchange another awkward look. Gemma still refuses to look at them. “Leave me.”

* * *

Of all the nights Darcy has ever lived—this must be one of the best ones.

Lupin reads aloud from _The Bell Jar_ with a pillow against his thigh, Darcy’s head against the pillow. A fire crackles merrily in the hearth, warming them, providing just enough light to color the pages of the book orange, enough light for him to read. Every so often, his fingers comb through Darcy’s hair distractedly, or the back of his fingers brush against her cheek as if making sure she’s still awake.

Across from them, on the other sofa, Gemma’s feet are stretched out in front of her, propped on the table. Her eyes are closed, having been dozing now for a little while, but now she’s awake—Darcy sees her fingernails lightly massaging the top of Hermione’s head in her lap. Hermione’s eyes are closed, as well, but she stirs once in a while, sighing contentedly against Gemma. At this innocent and heartwarming sight, Darcy can’t help but to think back to what Gemma had said, just a few nights ago.

Is it possible Gemma would choose her own family and safety over the Order? Over Darcy and Lupin—her true friends? Would Gemma choose to marry a pureblood boy over these nights spent in the company of her friends, over Hermione? Is asking Gemma to give up the life she’s known for twenty years asking too much of her? Why hadn’t Darcy ever sat down and asked her more questions about herself? Why hadn’t Darcy ever tried to understand the part of Gemma’s life she isn’t apart of? Darcy had spent so much time complaining about her own life, telling Gemma about all the things that were bothering her, that she hadn’t thought once to ask how Gemma was doing. Gemma, who has put far more on the line than most anyone in the Order—why hasn’t Darcy been a better friend?

The door of the drawing room creaks open and Lupin stops reading abruptly to look up. Darcy pushes herself to a sitting position, rubbing her eyes blearily and seeing Sirius in the doorway. “What is this?” he chuckles, looking around, eyes lingering on Gemma and Hermione, asleep together on the sofa. “Remus Lupin fan club?”

Gemma’s eyes flutter open at this. She glances down at Hermione and smiles weakly, smoothing her hair back and closing her eyes again.

With the holidays rapidly coming to an end and Sirius taking it extremely hard, Darcy has been seeing less and less of her godfather lately. “Could I have a word, Darcy?”

Darcy hums in response, and everyone begins to move. Lupin closes the book and gets to his feet. Gemma yawns, patting Hermione gently on the cheek. “Time for bed, my love,” Gemma murmurs, helping Hermione up by the hand and pulling her past Sirius to doorway. “Goodnight, everyone.”

Lupin gives Darcy her book back, kissing her sweetly on the cheek, making her blush. “Goodnight, Darcy,” he whispers, casting a nervous glance over at Sirius, who has found the decency to look away. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

When finally it is only Darcy and Sirius, she offers him a seat beside her. Sirius takes it gratefully, but when he gets nearer her, Darcy can smell the stale smell of old drink. She frowns, taking her hand in his and squeezing. “Is something wrong?” she asks gently.

“You’re going back to Hogwarts soon,” he says very matter-of-factly.

“I am.”

“You’re going back to Snape.”

Darcy doesn’t flinch at the malice in his voice when he mentions Snape. “Yes, I am.”

“He got you a Christmas gift.”

She hesitates, but tries not to show her discomfort. The fact that Sirius has come in here, has interrupted such a comfortable time, to chastise her about Snape irritates her to no end. “He did.”

“Why?” It is an accusation, as if this Christmas gift means something too foul to think of.

“Because I gave him a gift. It’s polite, isn’t it?”

“Polite,” Sirius repeats, scrunching his nose. “Yes, I suppose it was polite of him. Didn’t see anyone else receive a gift from Snape.”

“No one else is his assistant.” Darcy pulls her hand away from his. She doesn’t know why his words affect her so. Maybe it’s because Sirius hates Snape with all that he has that makes her so angry. But she’s more tired than anything, and her anger fades. “I don’t expect you to understand what Snape and I have.”

“Then explain.”

Darcy feels a chill run down her spine. She doesn’t really want to. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

“It’s not a happy story.”

“No good stories are happy ones.”

Exasperated, Darcy sighs when Sirius smiles slightly. The sight is so endearing, even with a topic so sour. She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “Professor Snape saved my life. I owe him everything.”

“I know,” Sirius says, and she shifts again, looking away from him and into the fire. “He saved you in the Shrieking Shack.”

“He did.” Darcy forces herself to look into his gray eyes again, looking somewhat lighter in the firelight. She hopes by looking into his face, she won’t appear so guilty, and hopes that Sirius won’t ask any further questions. But she knows Sirius better than that.

“That wasn’t the only time.” It is not a question.

“No.”

“Was it—Umbridge?” Sirius asks her quickly, looking very worried for her. He leans in as if preparing to share a secret.

“No.”

Sirius grinds his teeth. “Are you going to elaborate at all? Or will you keep me guessing all night?”

“I…did something stupid last year, and Professor Snape saved me from the consequences of said stupid thing.”

“What did you do?” he presses.

Darcy feels a surge of affection for Lupin, Gemma, Dumbledore, and even Snape for not telling him what had happened. After all, it’s nothing something she is very keen to talk about, nor is it something to be proud of. It is a shameful memory, one that haunts her sleep sometimes, the crushing and burning feeling of drowning. The words are on the tip of her tongue, but her throat constricts as she tries to explain. “It’s none of your business,” she says finally, looking down into her lap.

“It is my business, Darcy,” Sirius replies. “I’m your godfather, and if something happened, I want to know. You told me you wanted me to play the part of your father—”

“And I regret it more with every passing day.” She half-expects to see rage flash in those cold eyes, but it doesn’t come. Sirius looks genuinely hurt, frowning deeply. Darcy softens. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Just tell me what happened, sweetheart,” he says in a soft voice, patting her cheek. Darcy shakes him off and his hand falls to his lap again.

After her outburst, Darcy feels quite guilty. “I had a hard time… _adjusting_ last year. Hogwarts had always been home to me while I was at school, but once I started staying with Remus, Hogwarts wasn’t the same.” Deciding last minute that she’d rather keep the conversation short, Darcy condenses it. “Remus and I were arguing and—and then Harry and I fought, and I was just so tired. I had never had freedom like that before and it was all so overwhelming and I—”

Sirius raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“I walked into the lake. I tried to drown myself. I don’t know why I did it.”

He reaches out for her hand, and Darcy doesn’t pull away. His thumb brushes over her knuckles, much the same way Snape’s had, but Sirius continues to look her in the eyes.

“Professor Snape had seen me, he followed me. He pulled me out.” She furrows her brow. “He never told you? Remus never told you?”

Sirius’ face is white as a ghost. “No,” he croaks. “I never—I had no idea. Darcy, I’m so sorry—if I could have _been_ there for you—”

“It’s no one’s fault but mine,” she says quickly, blushing. “It’s over now. I’m okay.”

“And…has the freedom gotten any easier for you?”

Darcy considers him, wondering if he’s not just asking for her sake, but for his, as well. “I’ve gotten used to it. With Professor Snape there, it’s easier. He takes care of me, Sirius. He makes sure I’m all right.”

Sirius is quiet for a moment, digesting this information. “Does Harry know?”

“No, and I plan for him to never have to find out.” And at the sight of Sirius’s worn expression, she adds quickly, “I know he’s not…he couldn’t replace dad, or you. It’s just—complicated.”

“Complicated.”

“Yes, complicated.” _Just like me_. “I know what he is, who he is. But without Professor Snape with me at Hogwarts, I would not have survived. And even if I had, I would certainly not survive Umbridge. He is good to me.”

“He loves you.”

Darcy falters. She hates thinking about it, hates wondering if Snape thinks of her far more than necessary, wondering if he thinks she could ever love him back. But mostly, she hates admitting it outloud, especially to her godfather. “Yes,” she whispers. “I think he does.”


	39. Chapter 39

Darcy jumps down the steps two or three at a time, landing lightly on her tiptoes so as not to wake Mrs. Black. Long legs carry her gracefully down the stairs, still sore between them from she and Lupin’s most recent affair just the previous night, and the places on her inner thighs where he’d pressed light kisses against her warm flesh still burns hot. “Sirius,” she calls, landing at the bottom of the staircase with a light _thump_. “I think Kreacher stole my camera. I can’t find it anywhere. Can you please— _oh_ , what are _you_ doing here? Dumbledore said I could come back with the others.”

“I’m here at the Headmaster’s request,” Professor Snape answers, folding down the day’s copy of the _Daily Prophet_ and looking at her from one end of the table. “Molly has gone to fetch your brother. I have a message for him.”

“Don’t act like that’s the only reason you’re here, _Snivellus_ ,” Sirius spits from the opposite end of the table, looking both self-satisfied and annoyed at the same time. He looks half a boy, feet up on the table, a sneer on his face, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m sure it’s very lonely for you at Hogwarts without Darcy. Been dying to see how she likes your gift, have you?”

Color floods Snape’s face, and Darcy turns to Sirius, frowning. “Leave him alone, Sirius.”

“Isn’t this scene familiar? A pretty girl running to your rescue?” Sirius asks, raising his eyebrows. “Any choice words you’d like to say to Darcy? Or did you learn your lesson the first time round?”

Snape’s jaw clenches and he looks quickly at Darcy. She waits with bated breath, wondering if there’s going to be any explanation offered her, but neither Snape nor Sirius indulges her.

Turning back to Snape, her eyes flick from his face to the newspaper in his hands and back again. “What’s the message for Harry?”

But Harry appears in the doorway behind her before Snape can answer. She smiles sweetly at her little brother, but Harry only looks very nervous and very tense. “Hey, Darcy,” he says warily, looking slowly around the kitchen. Sirius and Snape continue to glare at each other, as if ready to pounce without the slightest bit of warning.

“Sit down, Potter,” Snape says curtly, tearing his black eyes away from Sirius.

“You don’t get to give orders in _my_ house, Snape,” Sirius snaps, leaning back in his chair to balance on the back two, wobbly legs.

When Harry decides to seat himself beside Sirius, Snape continues. “I was supposed to see you alone, Potter, but Black—”

“I’m his godfather,” Sirius interrupts coldly.

Darcy hovers awkwardly in the doorway, debating whether or not to slowly back out or slowly creep in and steal back her camera from Kreacher’s den—if it’s even there. She’s sure both Snape and Sirius have forgotten she’s there, and she’s sure that they won’t really notice if she leaves. Darcy takes a careful step backwards as Snape speaks up again.

“I’m here on Dumbledore’s orders,” he says, and Darcy knows his tone all to well. The quiet and dangerous tone he adopts when preparing to say something nasty. “But by all means stay, Black, if you want so badly to be involved.”

The color drains from Sirius’ face and he snarls. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Snape doesn’t take his eyes off Sirius again, and this time it is his turn to sneer. “I’m sure you must feel frustrated by the fact that you can do nothing useful for the Order—where are you going, Darcy? Come back here. Though Dumbledore wanted me to deliver this message privately, your godfather assumes rules are below him—much like he did while at school—so I see no reason as to why you should not stay either.”

Halfway through the door, Darcy freezes. She looks at Snape to find he’s looking right back at her. Straightening up and flattening the front of her flowery dress nervously, she takes a seat closer to Snape, avoiding Sirius’ eyes.

“Don’t pretend that by having her stay, you’re doing this for her,” Sirius chuckles darkly, clearly trying to regain his dignity again. His face is still highly colored, blotchy, almost the same way Darcy’s face gets before she begins to cry. “We all know you just want her close to you.”

“ _Sirius_!” Darcy hisses, as both she and Snape flush again. “You’re being rude.”

Snape ignores them both, turning to Harry and looking incredibly apathetic. “It is the wish of the headmaster for you to study Occlumency this term.”

“Occlumency?” Darcy repeats, giving Snape a blank look. He looks back at her, his lip curling, his eyes boring into her bright green ones. For a moment, the image of Lupin kissing her sweetly just this morning against her own smile, his fingertips tracing the sharp line of her jaw, the sunlight making his strong shoulders glow a dazzling gold—and then Darcy looks away, blushing more furiously than either Snape or Sirius have done while seated in the kitchen. “That is _private_ —”

“Seems you could do with lessons, as well,” Snape murmurs, looking away from her with his cheeks colored. The atmosphere in the room is suddenly very heavy and awkward, everyone flushing for one reason or another. “Occlumency, Potter, is the—”

“Read Darcy’s mind again, and you’ll be sorry, Snivellus,” Sirius growls, pointing an accusing finger at Snape across the table. “My goddaughter’s mind is not something for you to peruse at your leisure.”

Still ignoring him completely, Snape continues to speak to Harry. “Occlumency is the magical defense of the mind against external penetration. Highly useful, as I’m sure you can understand.”

Harry nods slowly. “But why?”

Snape shifts in his seat, clearly eager to leave. “The headmaster thinks it a good idea. You will have private lessons once a week, but you tell no one what you are doing, least of all Dolores Umbridge.”

Harry seems very anxious to hear the answer to his next question. “Who will be teaching me?”

“Me,” Snape replies, sitting up straighter in his seat, making himself seem as tall as possible. “So I will see you at six o’clock on Monday, Potter, and if anyone asks, you are taking Remedial Potions—”

“Professor Snape,” Darcy says quickly, and Harry gives her a very hopeful look from the other end of the table. “Could I join you? Could I be there during lessons, as well?”

Harry looks as though he very much enjoys this idea, but Snape does not share the same line of thought. “No,” he answers firmly, making Darcy frown.

“But—” Darcy looks at Sirius and Harry, hoping for backup, but none comes. “But you could teach me, too. Remus let me sit in on Harry’s Patronus lessons—”

“I know very well that Lupin allowed you to do near anything you wanted while at school,” Snape says coolly, making her blush again. “But I’m sure you scarcely need a reminder than I am not Lupin.”

Darcy doesn’t answer, holding her hands in her lap and looking away, her face pink. Privately, Darcy thinks Snape doesn’t want her around lessons so he can be cruel to Harry without her intervening or scolding him, but she doesn’t want to say so here, not wanting to brook another argument between Snape and Sirius. However, judging by the expression on his face, Sirius seems to understand without her having to say anything. As Snape stands up to leave, brushing off his robes with a scowl on his face, he instinctively holds out a hand to help Darcy to her feet. Sheepishly, she places her hand in his and allows him to help her up.

“A word before I go?” Snape murmurs, and Darcy nods, making to follow him from the kitchen, but Sirius calls up to him, jumping up from his chair. “What is it, Black? I’m in a hurry. Some of us don’t have the liberty of doing _nothing_ all day…”

Sirius’ face darkens, and Darcy feels he looks quite dog-like in the moment—teeth bared, eyes flashing, nose scrunched. “If I hear that you’ve been using these Occlumency lessons to give Harry a hard time, you’ll have me to answer to.”

Snape scoffs softly, placing a hand on Darcy’s back, preparing to push her through the doorway. “How very touching,” he replies. “But Potter is very like his father—so arrogant that criticism simply bounces off him.”

Sirius moves quicker than Darcy could have believed. He races around the table and both he and Snape draw their wands at the same time. “Get your hands off my goddaughter— _now_ ,” Sirius snarls into Snape’s face. Harry attempts to  
shout him down, but Sirius ignores him completely, shaking his head. “Dumbledore may think you’ve reformed, but I know better. And you know what? I don’t trust you around Darcy. I want to know what you’re up to.”

“Sirius!” Darcy shouts, clutching at Snape’s sleeve. “Stop it!”

“Darcy,” Snape growls, giving her a dangerous look, pushing her behind him. “ _Shut your mouth_. I don’t think your godfather understands much of anything, given that he’s been hiding inside this house for six months while the rest of us are putting our lives on the line. You know Lucius Malfoy recognized you on the platform? Congratulations on earning yourself a convenient lifetime’s imprisonment in this house. Was that your plan all along? It must be _dreadful_...”

“Are you calling me a coward?” Sirius spits back. They inch closer, their wand tips just hovering above each other’s hearts. Harry runs around the table, attempting to lower Sirius’ wand, his hands clasped around his godfather’s thin arm.

Darcy does the same with Snape, slipping back to his side again and grabbing the sleeve of his robes. “Why, yes—I suppose I am.” He turns his head around. “Darcy, stop!”

“Professor Snape, _please_ —stop it!”

“Harry, get off me!”

“Sirius—”

The four of them all wrestle for a moment, incoherently grunting, Snape and Sirius trying their utmost to keep their wands pointed at each other. Sirius pushes Harry away with his free hand, and Darcy steps in front of Snape, one hand outstretched and grabbing hold of the wrist of his right hand, his other arm wrapped firmly around her neck as if in a chokehold, trying to hold her back. On a whim, Darcy retracts her hands from Snape’s wrist and, without hesitation, grabs hold of his left forearm and digs her fingers into his sleeve. A strangled cry spills from his mouth, Snape tears his arm out of her grasp, his wand still pointed at Sirius.

“You little—” He grabs her wrist and pulls her closer, looking down into her face and preparing to say something hurtful, she’s sure, when the kitchen door opens and everyone freezes.

“Cured!” comes a familiar voice Darcy hadn’t expected to hear. “Completely cured!”

The Weasley family, Hermione, and Lupin are standing in the doorway; Mr. Weasley is smiling brightly, but at the scene he’s just walked in on unknowingly, his smile falters. Snape with a cold look on his face and a firm grip on Darcy, their chests pressed together, his wand held out towards Sirius; Harry, his back to Darcy, his hands held out to stop Sirius from coming any closer; Sirius, livid at the sight of Snape touching Darcy, his wand hand trembling violently as he continues to point it at Snape’s heart.

“What’s going on here?” Mr. Weasley asks quickly, his healthy and bright demeanor suddenly fading. He isn’t smiling anymore, his eyes flicking from Sirius to Harry to Darcy to Snape and back again.

Sirius and Snape, recognizing defeat (although very bitter looking that neither of them had been able to hex the other), slowly lower their wands. Snape releases his grip on Darcy, but with Harry right behind her, she’s unable to fall away from him. And then, as Darcy turns again to smile weakly at Mr. Weasley, she feels the familiar hand slip under her red hair and clamp down upon the nape of her neck, giving her goosebumps. He doesn’t seem to have anything to say to Mr. Weasley, forcing Darcy to walk with him past the Weasley family and guests, making for the narrow hallway outside the kitchen.

“Hold on, Severus,” Lupin says quickly, stepping in front of Darcy to block them from making their progress. “Darcy is come back to Hogwarts tomorrow.” He raises his eyebrows, adding quickly, “With me.”

Snape’s face turns the color of sour milk. “Don’t worry, she will be returned to you. I only seek a private word with her—and don’t look so tense, Lupin. A _private word_ does not mean the same thing to me as it does to you.”

Lupin closes his mouth tight. He looks around to find everyone looking at him, blushing slightly and scowling at his feet.

Darcy and Snape proceed to the drawing room, where he slams the door shut so loudly that it wakes Mrs. Black, and then locks it. She crosses her arms over her chest, feeling a sudden rush of dislike for Snape, a feeling she hasn’t felt about him in months. “What is wrong with you?” she hisses at him. “Why would you say those things?”

“Don’t you _ever_ touch me like that again—”

“You know very well it’s not Sirius’ fault he’s trapped here,” Darcy protests over him. “It’s _your_ fault that the Ministry still thinks he killed all those people. It’s _your_ fault there’s still a bounty on his head.”

“We’re back to this now, are we?” Snape answers evasively.

“What was Sirius talking about? Why would you have choice words for me?” The question bursts from her, her heart racing. Even Snape looks breathless, grinding his teeth. “What lesson did you learn?”

“You ignorant, assuming, arrogant girl—”

“Don’t talk to me like that—”

“It’s true,” he snaps. “Always meddling in things that are absolutely none of your business—”

“Things that aren’t _my_ business?” Darcy shouts, resisting the urge to strike him across the face. “Don’t you dare look at memories like that ever again! Those were private—what makes you think you can just _do_ that?”

“I am responsible for your wellbeing while you are working under me at Hogwarts,” Snape says defensively, too quickly. “If I have reason to believe you’re being mistreated or doing something stupid like putting your reputation at risk—not that your reputation is very good to begin with—then it is my job to put a stop to it.”

“You know, for someone who claims to actually care for me, that’s a poor way to speak to me—”

“I claimed no so thing,” Snape hisses, taming a step nearer Darcy. “I said I was responsible for your wellbeing, and it is at the request of Dumbledore. You give yourself far too much credit.”

Darcy tenses, clenching her jaw and not daring to look away from him. Snape seems resolute, but finished speaking for the meantime. “That’s all I am to you, then?” she asks softly, adopting a venomous tone far too similar to his own. “Another trivial, menial, horrible task that Dumbledore has delegated to you? An assignment for the Order? A _burden_. That’s all I am to you?”

Snape softens slightly—just slightly—but doesn’t answer. He stands there with a stony look on his face, and Darcy accepts his silence as answer enough. He does nothing to convince her otherwise, to explain that he hadn’t meant to say it.

“Get out,” Darcy says loudly, swatting him across the chest, anger spilling over that she’s not felt in what seems like a long time. Her eyes well up with tears, and she hits Snape again before screaming at him to leave. When he does nothing but stumble backwards towards the closed door, Darcy turns and strides over to the piano, grabbing hastily at the binder full of sheet music and carrying it back over to Snape. She forces it into his chest, opening the door for him. “Take it back! I don’t want _anything_ from you! Go— _go_!”

Continuing to stumble under her swatting and light punches, Snape trips over the threshold and backs into the hallway. From the other end, Darcy catches sight of the Weasleys, Hermione, Harry, Sirius, and Lupin all watching their argument quietly, wide-eyed. “Darcy—” Snape begins, clutching the binder with one hand and trying to catch one of her wrists with the other. “Darcy, stop—”

“No!” Darcy cries, taking a break from pushing Snape towards the door to wipe at her tear-streaked cheeks angrily. “Get out! I don’t even want to look at you!”

Snape’s back hits the door hard as she pushes him once again, which rattles on its hinges, along with the many locks. “Stop hitting me—” He reaches into his cloak pocket, clearly fumbling for his wand.

“You’re going to hex me?” Darcy asks him, scoffing through her tears. “Doesn’t matter to you what happens to me, right? Careful, Professor Snape, or Dumbledore will get mad at you for failing your assignment.”

“Darcy,” Snape says in a low, hurried voice. He sounds desperate to be heard, and there’s a pleading note in his voice that Darcy has never heard before. He glances up at the others, watching openly, and lowers his voice still. “Don’t be foolish—of course it matters to me what happens to you—”

Snape raises a hand, hesitating, his palm hovering inches from her cheek. Darcy pushes his hand away from her face. “Stop saying things like that,” Darcy counters, trying to keep her voice low as possible. Part of her considers waking Mrs. Black, just so no one else will hear their conversation. She’s sure their voices carry down the empty corridor. “I thought you cared about me—I _trusted_ you, I was stupid enough to believe you loved me, and all this time, you have been watching over me all because Dumbledore has asked you to! You’ve never once seen me as myself, have you?”

The words tumble out of her before she can think about them. Part of Darcy believes them—how many times had she been told Snape must only be fond of her because he was of her mother? Snape has just proved he doesn’t care what he says to her, insulting her as if he hadn’t given her a thoughtful gift just on Christmas. And the other half of her fights it, half- _wanting_ it to be true. It would be so much easier to not have to dwell on complicated feelings at night, easier not to have another reason to hate herself.

“I hate you,” she lies, tears still spilling down her cheeks. “Get out.”

Snape looks at her as though she’s slapped him across the face. Darcy spins on her heel, unable to look into his eyes any longer. She makes to storm away from him, but Snape’s hands reach out, the binder held against his chest falls loudly to the floor, and his fingers clasp her shoulder, attempting to turn her back around.

“Don’t—”

“Darcy, you’re being foolish—”

Darcy throws Snape’s hand off her shoulder, turns, and wipes her eyes again. She stands there for a moment, unsure of what to say. “I was so _stupid_ for caring about you. After all you have done to me and the people that I care about, how could I have been so _stupid_?”

A muscle twitches in Snape’s clenched jaw. He gropes blindly behind him for the doorknob, a look of blank shock on his face. Darcy takes this as her cue to walk away, but everyone is still huddled by the doorway of the kitchen, still watching.

Darcy growls at them, anger surging through her as she takes loud steps down the hall. Running her long fingers through her hair, she huffs, “And what are _you_ all looking at?”

As the front door slams shut behind Snape, Darcy can distinctly hear Sirius mutter from the kitchen, “Just like her mother, eh, Moony?”

“Come off it, Sirius.”

Her heart already pounding violently in her chest, Darcy stops at the doorway to the kitchen and grabs one of her shoes, throwing it past Fred and George. It hits Sirius square in the chest. He cries out, and Lupin grabs her hand as she begins to make the leap up the first three stairs.

She rounds on him. “Don’t _touch_ me!”

No one says a further word, but Darcy can feel their eyes following her up the stairs until she’s out of sight. Darcy closes her bedroom door quietly, nerves jangling, hands trembling, pacing back and forth. Most of her things have already been packed for her return to Hogwarts. Her trunk lies open on the bed, most of her clothes folded neatly, some left in the wardrobe for next weekend. Snatching a loose cigarette wedged in between two pairs of pants, she puts it to her lips, grabs her wand off the nightstand, and lights it.

She wonders if Snape will tell Dumbledore about their argument, wonders if Dumbledore will be waiting for her in her private apartment at Hogwarts—with or without Snape—to scold and humiliate her and treat her like a child for fighting with Snape again. _He deserved it,_ she thinks, _he shouldn’t have said those things to me or to Sirius_. Or maybe Snape won’t say a word to Dumbledore. After all, he and Sirius had been told to be polite to each other (as polite as they can be), and why would Snape admit to the headmaster exactly what Darcy had said to him? Is it true? Does Snape care about her, or had he only been instructed to look after her? Does he really care about Darcy, or does he look at her red hair and green eyes and think only of her mother?

Maybe it’s not true. Maybe Darcy just wanted to hurt him. But how hard could it possibly be for Snape to swallow his pride for _ten seconds_ to tell her how he feels? Would it kill him to just say the words _once_? I care about you, I care about what happens to you, I care about your feelings, I care about your wellbeing. How hard is that? But maybe talking about his feelings doesn’t come as easily to Snape as it does to Darcy. There had been things said— _you’re not a burden_ , he had said just at the beginning of the holidays. But Darcy scoffs at the thought. _He just doesn’t want me to try and kill myself again._

Darcy locks herself in her room for the rest of the day, reading and smoking and flipping through her photo albums. Mrs. Weasley brings her a plate of dinner when the sky grows pitch black outside. When Darcy cracks open the door to retrieve the food, Mrs. Weasley doesn’t even say anything about the amount of cigarette smoke that escapes her bedroom. “Is Gemma going to be here tonight?” she rasps before shutting the door again.

“No, dear,” Mrs. Weasley frowns. “She told Arthur she would be here next weekend.”

“And Emily?”

Mrs. Weasley looks as though giving Darcy an answer she won’t like will earn her a slap to the face, but she presses on regardless. “She’s busy tonight, Darcy.” She purses her lips, sighing. “Arthur would like to talk to you before you go. Shall I send him up?”

“No,” Darcy says quickly. “I want to be alone.”

She barely touches her dinner, not really hungry. It sits on her writing desk, growing cold and smoky, well past everyone else’s bedtime. Darcy lays back on her pillow, crying and crying and crying, hating herself for thinking so kindly of Snape, hating herself for assuming he cares for her the way she cares for him. How stupid could she have been? How desperate for love and affection and attention could she have been to think it likely Snape could offer her those things? She hears the shuffling of heavy footsteps up the stairs and down the hallway and above her bedroom, the muffled voices of Harry and Ron, Fred and George, Hermione and Ginny. And it’s not long after everyone begins to settle and the house grows quiet that Mrs. Weasley knocks at the bedroom door again, calling Darcy’s name softly.

“Darcy, you have a visitor,” Mrs. Weasley says. “Professor Dumbledore is in the kitchen waiting to speak to you.”

Darcy closes her eyes. So Snape had told Dumbledore, and probably lied about what had happened, probably lied to make himself look like a victim. Wanting Dumbledore to know the truth—especially what Snape had said to Sirius—Darcy gets to her feet, glancing in the mirror on her way to the door. Her eyes are swollen and red, her cheeks are blotchy, her hair a tangled mess. But she doesn’t really care how she looks right now—Dumbledore has come here, to her home, and she isn’t going to make an effort with her appearance because of that.

Darcy swings open the door, and it seems Mrs. Weasley cares far more about Darcy’s appearance than necessary. With a pleading and exasperated expression, she begs Darcy, “Please go brush your hair, Darcy, and put on something a little more modest, would you? Your shorts are far too short for a meeting with Professor Dumbledore. And do you have perfume? You smell like Mundungus.”

“Please, Molly, don’t bother our dear Darcy with such trivial things,” comes Dumbledore’s soft voice as he climbs the stairs. Mrs. Weasley jumps, turning around and blushing. “This is her home, after all. I would prefer that she is comfortable. Could I step inside for a moment, Darcy? To speak privately?”

“Please, Headmaster,” Mrs. Weasley says quickly, attempting to block the way into Darcy’s bedroom. “Darcy can come down into the kitchen or the drawing room. She’s been smoking all day inside with no window open, and she isn’t dressed appropriately—”

“Molly, I do not mind if her shorts end above her knees, nor will I scold her for what she does in her own bedroom in her godfather’s home,” Dumbledore answers, a bite of impatience in his voice. “May I come in, Darcy? Or would you rather we meet downstairs?”

Darcy shrugs. “Here is fine.”

Dumbledore smiles politely at Mrs. Weasley, inclining his head as he passes by her, allowing himself into Darcy’s bedroom. She closes the door behind him, in the face of a spluttering and embarrassed Mrs. Weasley. Darcy slowly tidies her bedroom, closing her trunk and moving it off the bed to give Dumbledore a place to sit. She tries in vain to open the window to let the lingering smoke out of the room, but it doesn’t budge, and Darcy uses her wand to banish much of it, and perfume to cover the smell. Dumbledore waits patiently for her to finish bustling around the room, peering curiously at the pictures in her photo album.

“Your photographs always make me smile,” Dumbledore says, sounding weary. “Did you enjoy your Christmas?”

Darcy nods, smiling weakly at Dumbledore. “It’s been a long time since I’ve celebrated a Christmas with a real family, in a house where I am wanted.”

Dumbledore exhales loudly through his long crooked nose. “You know why I am here, I assume?”

Blushing, Darcy looks out of the window to avoid meeting his eyes. “Because I was fighting with Professor Snape.”

“I have heard Professor Snape’s version of events, and I would hear yours now, Darcy.”

Darcy dives in, turning to face Dumbledore. She tells him of what had been said between Snape and Sirius, and how she and Harry had tried to stop them from dueling. She tells him everything—how she’d dug her fingers into his Dark Mark in the hopes he would back down, what Snape had said to her about her being his responsibility, how she had hit him and given him back the gift he got her for Christmas because it disgusted her to think he did it only because he missed her mother. When she finishes, she’s breathing very heavily, pacing back and forth and biting her nails anxiously.

Dumbledore listens, not interrupting once. He merely looks amused, as if about to laugh, and it infuriates her. It’s not funny, and it’s not a joke, and unless there is something Dumbledore knows that she doesn’t, Darcy’s bound to explode soon.

“Your version of events and Professor Snape’s seem to match almost exactly,” Dumbledore shrugs innocently. He pats the empty mattress beside him. “Come sit down, Darcy.” She does, trying to keep her leg from bouncing, but thankfully, it doesn’t seem to bother Dumbledore as much as it bothers Snape. “There are a few things I want to say to you, and the first is that I have spoken with Professor Snape about performing Legilimency on you. He will not longer do that without your consent, and if he does, I would like you to tell me. Professor Snape should respect your privacy, and you should respect his, as well.”

“That would be much appreciated, Professor.”

Dumbledore sighs, very much an old man in this moment. “I see how you are with those that you love. With Sirius, Remus, Gemma, and Mr. Weasley—you are very vocal about how you feel for them, and in turn, they are very vocal about how they feel for you. Even with your brother, you and he are comfortable showing love in ways that both of you are comfortable doing. There is nothing wrong with this, especially when you have gone a very long time sometimes without hearing that you are cared for and loved. You are emotional, sentimental, affectionate—good things, of course.”

Darcy looks into her lap, suddenly feeling very ashamed.

Dumbledore smiles at her, a comforting smile, and she catches it from the corner of her eye, too embarrassed to look into his face. “Darcy, do you think Professor Snape is someone who would be very vocal about his feelings?”

She looks up just for a second. “No.” Darcy hesitates, hoping Dumbledore will fill the silence, but he doesn’t. “I’m sorry for what I said and did to Professor Snape. I was just—hurt.”

“Darcy, when I decided to have you back at Hogwarts, I did make it Professor Snape’s duty to watch over you. However, I did not tell him to buy you a Christmas gift, nor did I tell him to allow you to teach classes. I did not tell him he had to be the one to see to your hurts. He has done all of those things on his own.” Dumbledore smiles kindly again, leaning in towards her, his bright blue eyes twinkling. “Maybe it is easier for some people to show that they care instead of saying it.”

Darcy shifts uncomfortably on the creaking mattress. “Yes, sir. Am I going to be punished?”

“No,” Dumbledore chuckles. “When I told you and Professor Snape that I did not want you to argue anymore, I meant over trivial things—useless things. I did not want you bickering anymore. Arguments over misunderstandings and miscommunications happen often between friends and colleagues.”

“Yes, sir.”

His face turns very serious suddenly. “There is one more thing I would like to address before I take my leave,” he says grimly. “I commend you for your handling of Professor Umbridge. I know it is not easy for you, and I know that you know most of the Order wishes to see you removed from Hogwarts. I know that you have been suffering, and I know that she is cruel to you, but you are safe as long as you are with Professor Snape. I’m sorry for the way you are being treated, and I want you to know that I am trying to make it come to a halt. I hate seeing you hurt beneath the roof of Hogwarts.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You and Professor Snape have come a very long way, and I am proud of the both of you.”

“Thank you.”

“Now—” Dumbledore gets to his feet, not seeming half as sprightly and youthful as he usually is. But there’s another mischievous glimmer in his eye as he takes his wand from the pocket of his robes and holds it out. “It is late, and I must be returning to Hogwarts. And I think you have another visitor who is patiently waiting for me to finally leave.” He flicks his wand at Darcy’s bedroom door. It opens of its own accord, and Darcy can’t help but to smile at the sight of Lupin leaning against the opposite wall, fiddling with Darcy’s camera. “Good evening, Remus.”

Lupin clears his throat and straightens up, his cheeks turning slightly pink. “I wasn’t listening,” he says, more to Darcy than to Dumbledore. Dumbledore takes a moment to watch their interaction. “I’m sorry, I just—well, I got your camera back from Kreacher.”

Darcy takes her camera from him, feeling rather awkward. “Thank you,” she rasps, and Lupin gives a nod, not moving away.

“Goodnight, Darcy. Remus, see to it that she returns to Hogwarts safely tomorrow.”

When Dumbledore leaves them, Darcy allows Lupin into her bedroom. He looks as if he’s bursting to say something, to ask about what he’d witnessed between she and Snape, but Darcy whispers, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then you don’t have to.”

Darcy sighs. “I go back to Hogwarts tomorrow.”

“As if I’ve forgotten.” Lupin frowns, reaching out to take the camera from her hands, placing it on the nightstand. Once her hands are empty, he takes them, lacing their fingers together. “Are you sure you won’t stay?”

“I’m sure.” But Darcy stands on her tiptoes and kisses him anyway, wanting to feel the warmth of his touch and the feel of his lips and fingers and hands one more time before she leaves. She wants to make him feel so good and so happy that he’ll never want anyone else for the rest of his life.

Lupin coerces her out of her clothes quickly with a few well-placed kisses, and while she hovers above him a few minutes later, kissing down his throat, he does something he hasn’t done in a long time. Seemingly on a whim, Lupin wraps his arms around Darcy and sits up abruptly, keeping her in his lap. His rough fingers brush across the scars on her shoulder, giving her goosebumps. When Lupin places soft kisses on each of them in turn, it makes Darcy shiver, a chill shooting down her spine. She sighs in his ear, and he rests his forehead against her shoulder.

“I’m going away for a little while,” he murmurs against her skin. “Dumbledore approached me with something he’d like done for the Order, and I accepted.”

Darcy tenses, running her fingers through his hair. “How long?” she breathes, kissing his temple.

“A few weeks, maybe.” Lupin lifts his head, looking up at her, inches away from her lips.

“When did Dumbledore ask you?”

He hesitates. “The day after Christmas. I was going to accept straight away, but Dumbledore wanted me to think on it.” Lupin slides his fingers up and down her arms lightly, making her hair stand up on end. “I accepted the morning of the party. The New Year’s party.”

“Oh.” Darcy licks her lips, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. “Will it be dangerous? Should I worry about never seeing you again?”

“No,” he answers. “You shouldn’t worry about me.”

In the moment, Darcy pushes him back down into his back and grabs her camera off the table. Straddling his waist and looking down at him, Darcy snaps a photograph. They wait a few minutes, chuckling together as the picture dries, and when it does, it leaves Darcy breathless.

The easy, cool smile is on his face, and the grin extends to his eyes—eyes that normally look a soft brown to Darcy have splashes of green in them, brightened the glowing light of the lamps in the bedroom. His hair, growing slightly grayer with what seems like each passing month, disheveled and falling in his face. A much broader chest than she remembers him having when she’d first seen him shirtless, littered with scars and tinted orange from the flickering light. This is Remus Lupin at his most vulnerable, this is an honest picture of the Remus Lupin she knows and loves. When Darcy flips it around to show him, Lupin tries to grab it from her hands, protesting loudly against her keeping it.

“What do you mean?” Darcy scoffs, holding the picture out of reach. “You kept naked pictures of me—why can’t I keep this _one_ picture?”

“Fair enough,” Lupin says, flushing.

It isn’t until afterwards, when they’re lying in bed together, tired and undressed and in complete darkness, does it really hit Darcy it’s the last night of the holidays. She wishes they would have started this sooner, the day she had come back to Grimmauld Place. A little over a week isn’t enough time—she needs more time to kiss him all over, to touch him in the places he likes best until he cannot hang on any longer, until soft moans and sighs escape his lips and he melts beneath her touch. They had agreed, without really talking about it, that this thing they had going on was only going to last until Darcy returned to Hogwarts, and now with Lupin leaving for some mysterious mission that likely no one will tell her about… It had all seemed too good to be true. But now that it has come to an end, it only hurts and makes her sad and lonely. She wishes they hadn’t started this at all, if only to save each other the pain of separating again. Or at least, to save _her_ the pain.

An arm underneath her, his right hand cradling her face, Lupin leaves soft and tender kisses on her forehead, cheeks, nose, lips, eyebrows, chin, everywhere he can reach. Darcy closes her eyes, exhausted and still tired from crying, allowing Lupin to kiss her as he pleases, until he runs out of unkissed skin and falls back onto his pillow. Darcy can’t help but to get lost in her thoughts—thoughts that are not angry or greedy, but hopeful. Maybe—even though they both refuse to commit unless certain terms are agreed to—it’s enough to know he still loves her. Maybe it’s enough to know that Lupin keeps pictures of her beside his bed, pulling them out when he thinks of her at night. Maybe the sound of him whimpering her name at her touch— _Darcy, Darcy, Darcy_ —is enough to get her through the rest of the school year. Or the way he had growled her name in her ear when he finished, or the way his teeth graze her throat before he leaves sweet kisses on her skin. These things that are enough for Darcy, but have never been enough for Lupin—these are the things that she will carry with her, and even when she leaves and he decides to pursue someone else, Darcy can always remember the stolen moments they’d shared together that no one—not even her best friend—had known about.

Lupin’s thumb brushes over her lips. “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” she breathes, kissing his finger. “Always you.”

He chuckles. “Good answer, kitten,” he says, before kissing her deeply.

* * *

Their send-off from Grimmauld Place is a sorry one. Sirius gives Darcy the most pathetic hug she’s ever received and a kiss on the head that seems more habitual than genuine and loving. Mrs. Weasley does gives her a tight hug, and Mr. Weasley smiles weakly at her before hugging her and kissing her cheek slightly more meaningfully than Sirius had.

Darcy had begged Lupin to just Apparate with her to Hogwarts after he’d told her they would be taking the Knight Bus. The idea of seeing an over excited Stan Shunpike hadn’t, and still doesn’t, appeal to Darcy at all, but Lupin had insisted, explaining that Dumbledore wanted to keep her with the others. So she grudgingly climbs onto the Knight Bus after Lupin throws out his right arm.

The inside is much more crowded than Darcy’s ever seen it, and everyone spreads out, taking seats in old, but comfortable armchairs and benches. Darcy sits in the very back, picking up an old copy of _Witch Weekly_ off the ground and opening it, hiding her face behind it as Lupin sits on her left side and Hermione sits by the window on Darcy’s right. Peeking over the top of the magazine, Stan waltzes right to the back, a smug smile on his pimply face. Darcy holds out enough money to pay for both she and Lupin, and though Lupin goes to protest, Stan takes the money greedily, moving closer to the magazine separating his face from Darcy’s.

“Mornin’, Darcy,” he grins. Darcy lowers the magazine, sighing heavily. “Thought I wouldn’t recognize that pretty face? You’ve been too long. ‘Ere’s your tickets.”

Darcy hands one of the tickets to Lupin, keeping one for herself, attempting to hide behind the magazine again, avoiding Stan’s ugly face.

“So…how ya been, Darcy? You look just as pretty as last time. Was thinkin’ maybe if you ain’t busy one day, we could go out somewhere—”

Lupin watches Stan ramble with his eyes narrowed, his nose scrunched, snarling. He cuts across Stan, drawing the attention of many riders around them with his loud voice. “Turn around and walk away from her,” he growls, and Stan jumps. Stan blushes—even his pimples flush—but he skulks away anyway, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped.

Darcy blushes furiously, moving slightly closer to Lupin so their shoulders are touching. When she glances at Hermione, she’s smiling, her eyebrows raised and brown eyes twinkling. As Darcy curls her hands around Lupin’s bicep, resting her cheek against his shoulder, she mouths to Hermione: _shut up._

Yet the closer and closer they get to Hogwarts, with every violent and staggering stop, Darcy begins to feel sick, not due to the rattling of the bus—she’s far too used to riding the Knight Bus to feel ill about it—but due to the fact that time is counting down still. Lupin holds on tight to her and she to him as they’re thrown around the bus, and this only presents a problem once when both Darcy and Lupin are thrown into Hermione, pinning her against the wall. She lets out a loud grunt, moaning in pain, but laughs weakly all the same.

And at last, the Knight Bus speeds through the streets of Hogsmeade. Snow covers the thatched roofs and smoke rises from many of the chimneys and Darcy can smell the food and spiced mead as they roll past the Three Broomsticks and to the gates of Hogwarts. Lupin carries Darcy’s trunk off first, taking it out of Stan Shunpike’s eager hands to save him the trouble. And in no time at all, everyone is off the Knight Bus, surrounded by their luggage, waiting to say goodbye.

Tonks doesn’t linger when she says goodbye to Darcy. Tonks gives her an awkward, tense, overly polite, one-armed hug, smiles and says, “See you next weekend maybe,” and moves on.

Lupin approaches Darcy last, looking slightly flustered, brushing snow off her shoulders and adjusting the cloak wrapped around her. She lets him fuss for a moment, finally prying his hands off her when Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys begin to make their way back up to the castle. “Take care of yourself, Darcy,” he says, offering her a small smile. “I—I had a good Christmas with you.”

“Me too.” Darcy rocks back and forth on her heels, and before another word can be spoken, both she and Lupin move forward and wrap their arms around each other. Darcy buries her face in his shoulder, holding her arms around his neck tight. “Be careful.”

“Always.” His face is warm against the crook of her neck.

Reluctantly, Darcy pulls away from him, picks up her trunk, and makes her slow way up the drive towards Hogwarts. When she turns again to wave goodbye to Lupin, both he and Tonks are gone.

* * *

“Isn’t he the _cutest_ thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Darcy, I’m pretty sure that’s animal abuse. Look—he hates it!”

“He does not _hate_ it,” Darcy frowns at Ron, holding Max to her. The sweater that Carla had given her for Christmas fits perfectly on her owl, who had been so happy to see her back at Hogwarts, it had taken about twenty minutes to calm him down and get him into it (which had been far easier than she’d anticipated). He nuzzles against her neck, nipping affectionately at her ear and fingers. “He’s adorable.”

Darcy releases Max and he hoots loudly, flapping his wings in her face to perch upon her shoulder. She flips through some of her marked up parchment on the countertop, averting Hermione and Ron’s anxious faces. She knows they’re probably bursting to ask about what they’d witnessed between she and Snape, or wanting to ask how her first day back in close confines with him had been. However, she’s glad they don’t ask—likely at Hermione’s instruction, Hermione who is more tactful than either of her friends.

In truth, the day had gone fine. Snape has been polite to her, hadn’t interrupted during her first year class, had done everything she’d asked him to without complaint or even a scowl. He had even laughed dryly at a crude comment made about Umbridge in passing, which had made Darcy blush and slightly proud. Neither of them had brought up their argument and neither of them made mention of Dumbledore, and right as Darcy had been packing up to leave right as the bell for dinner rang, Snape had surprised her and said quietly, “It’s good to have you back, Darcy.”

“What are those?” Hermione asks, cradling a purring Crookshanks in her arms and standing up to walk over to Darcy.

“Oh,” Darcy says, quickly gathering all of the parchment together. “It’s just some—stuff I’ve been working on.”

“You’re still going through with the article?” Hermione sighs, releasing Crookshanks at her feet and grabbing at the parchment.

“What article?” Ron jumps up from the sofa to join them, looking curiously over Hermione’s shoulder at Darcy’s scribbled notes. “You never mentioned you were writing an article.”

Darcy allows Hermione to take her notes, not wanting a struggle to rip the pages. “Darcy has decided she’s going to write an article publicly defending werewolves, which—while very admirable, by the way—will probably get her sacked from Hogwarts.”

“ _Sacked_ from Hogwarts?” Ron repeats incredulously. “Come on, Darcy—I need you here! You’re probably the main reason I’m able to make it through Potions class. It’s a lot easier to sit for so long in Snape’s classroom with you pulling faces.”

“What does Lupin have to say about you publishing something like this?” Hermione asks again, narrowing her eyes as she continues to flip through the pages.

Darcy clears her throat, shifting uncomfortably.

“Hang on,” Ron says slowly, looking suspicious. “You haven’t told Lupin, have you?”

“So what if I haven’t told him?” Darcy snaps, snatching the parchment back out of Hermione’s hands. “He’ll just try to talk me out of it, and I’ve worked hard on this the last few weeks.”

“Look, Darcy, not all werewolves are like Lupin,” Ron argues. “People have gotten into a lot of trouble for writing stuff like this—for defending werewolves to the Ministry. Just ask dad—he told me there was one guy a few years ago who went in front of the Wizengamot and stood up for werewolves, and you know what happened to him?”

Darcy hesitates, unsure if she really wants to know. “What?”

“They found him dead the next full moon with a chunk taken out of his neck,” Ron continues, shuddering dramatically. “They got the werewolf who did it the next day. When they brought him in, you know what he said? He said that if that man loved werewolves so much, then he shouldn’t have been so frightened of being one.”

A heavy silence follows this story. Hermione, looking slightly sickened, glances warily at Darcy, waiting for an answer. Darcy only fingers the rough edges of the parchment, sighing. It’s nothing new, really—Gemma and Lupin both had warned her about the dangers of speaking out on behalf of werewolves.

“I’m safe here,” Darcy tells Ron quietly. “No werewolf is going to bite me while I’m at Hogwarts.”

“A werewolf _did_ almost bite you while you were at Hogwarts,” Ron reminds her, and Darcy goes to spit something back at him, but she sees his ears turn bright red and she softens. “I don’t think this is a good idea. What’ve you written, anyway?”

“It’s none of your business,” Darcy hisses. “You’ll find out when it’s published, won’t you?”

“Don’t mind Ron,” Hermione says quickly, her tone icy. “He doesn’t care much for helping the underprivileged—exhibit A: S.P.E.W.”

Ron opens his mouth to argue, but the three of them hear the sultry voice of the portrait ask, “What kind of wand does Darcy Potter own?” And her brother’s voice shouts, “Ten inches, unicorn hair core, and— _damn_ —is it beech wood? _Yes_!”

The door opens slowly and Harry topples over the threshold, panting, his face colorless, his hair damp with sweat and sticking up everywhere, revealing the harsh-looking scar on his forehead. Max hoots again, soaring away from Darcy’s shoulder to circle Harry a few times before retreating to the bedroom and flying through the open window.

“How was Occlumency?” Darcy asks casually, hiding her notes under her nearby ingredients box. She smiles weakly at Harry. “Are you all right?”

“It was fine, listen—” He rubs furiously at his forehead, his eyes screwed up against the pain. “These past few months, I’ve been dreaming of this door, right? And I didn’t even realize I had already seen the door before, I—I just thought it was some dream door.” Harry talks quickly, as if trying to get it all out before he forgets.

Darcy and Hermione exchange a lingering glance, but neither say anything.

“I saw the door while I was going down to my hearing. Darcy, remember? The door that led to the Department of Mysteries?” Harry asks, and Darcy gives a slight shrug. “That’s where Mr. Weasley was the night he was attacked by Voldemort’s snake. Mr. Weasley was guarding the door, and Voldemort’s snake was trying to get into the Department of Mysteries, so that must be where the weapon is, right?”

“Do we even know what’s in the Department of Mysteries?” Darcy asks, leading Harry, Hermione, and Ron over to the sofas and their unfinished homework again. “I don’t know anything about it.”

“They call the people who work there Unspeakables,” Ron supplies, but his information doesn’t give them much to work with. “It’s all top secret.”

“So the Ministry is developing a weapon,” Hermione says thoughtfully, casting another anxious glance at Harry. “Something top secret. Harry, are you sure you’re all right?”

“It’s just…” Harry sighs, pressing his fingers hard to his scar again. “I don’t really like Occlumency.”

“It was only your first lesson,” Darcy replies consolingly, frowning around at her friends. “It’ll get better once you get the hang of it. Why don’t you all go back to your common room? I’ve got some work I have to do anyway.”

“Yeah, all right…” Ron says, but he doesn’t seem thoroughly convinced. He and Hermione gather their things, clearing off the table and urging Harry to follow them towards the door.

“We’ll talk more about it tomorrow,” Darcy promises Harry, lingering a few feet away from Ron and Hermione. “Once you’ve cleared your head and you’re not stressing so much. When’s your next lesson?”

“Wednesday,” Harry answers, and with the pouting look of a fifteen-year-old, he looks up at her helplessly. “Snape is relentless, Darcy—I can’t take this, you have to talk to him.”

Darcy exhales through her nose, ruffling Harry’s hair and giving him a gentle push towards the door. “I’ll try, but no promises. When has Snape ever done anything just because I’ve asked?”

It’s meant to be a joke, and Darcy even smiles afterwards, but Harry, Hermione, and Ron all look at each other with their eyebrows raised. It’s Ron who speaks. “Snape’s done plenty for you.”

Flushing, Darcy holds the door open for them, urging them to return to their common room before slamming the door in their faces. 


	40. Chapter 40

**MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN**   
**MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS “RALLYING POINT” FOR OLD DEATH EATERS**

Darcy looks down at the ten photographs that cover the front page of the _Daily Prophet_. Pictures of Death Eaters that still have the look of Azkaban to them—their eyes seem deadened and hardened, much like Sirius’ had. Bellatrix Lestrange is one of them, looking less like Gemma than she had in Kreacher’s old photograph, and looking much more wild and crazed. Darcy stares into the faces of the other nine wizards, as if hoping to commit their faces to memory.

“You need to eat,” Snape murmurs, looking down at her empty plate. “Put down the paper.”

“I’m not hungry,” Darcy says quietly, opening the _Daily Prophet_ to read the story inside. Though the thought of a mass breakout makes her sick, she wants to be able to understand what has happened. Clearly the dementors had helped this along, which meant—for a certainty—Dumbledore had been right. The dementors have joined Voldemort, and how many more people would they help out of Azkaban?

“You need to eat something. What do you want?”

Darcy lifts her eyes from the newspaper to tell Snape again she’s not hungry, but she catches Dumbledore’s eye. Professor McGonagall is talking very seriously into Dumbledore’s ear, a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ in front of her, but Dumbledore is watching Snape and Darcy’s interaction closely, stroking his long beard. Blushing, Darcy looks away, back at Snape, shrugging. “Bacon.”

As Snape fills her plate with, not only bacon, but eggs and kippers, Darcy catches sight of his left wrist and her hand darts out to grab his sleeve. Snape freezes, a serving spoon still in his hand, and Darcy begins to push his sleeve aside to examine his skin. There’s a large, angry welt there, and she brushes her thumb over it.

“What happened to your wrist?” Darcy asks, frowning up at him. When she feels him tense beneath her fingers, she releases him.

“An accidental Stinging Hex,” Snape replies in a low grumble, retracting his wrist from her. “It’s nothing. Eat your breakfast.”

“A Stinging Hex? Who did that to you?”

“Don’t ask questions now, Darcy.”

Darcy only eats half of the plateful Snape has made for her, finishing a good half hour before breakfast ends. When she looks up to find Umbridge glaring down the table at her, Darcy decides she’d rather spend the rest of her time before classes in Snape’s classroom. She tells him so, swings her bag over her shoulder, and gets to her feet, surprised when Snape mimics her. Without speaking, he follows her from the Great Hall and down towards the dungeon, careful to keep some distance between them. Darcy continually glances over her shoulder to make sure he’s still there, and he is—the only sound the echoing of his heavy footsteps on the flagged stone floor, louder than Darcy’s light steps.

Once inside the classroom, Darcy lights a fire in the grate to Snape’s displeasure, but she’s thankful for the amount of light the fire casts around the classroom. The candles in the brackets do little to lighten the gloomy atmosphere, but fire means warmth, warmth and a little comfort. Darcy drops her bag behind Snape’s desk and pulls her small potions kit from the bottom drawer, dropping it loudly on the desktop. Fiddling with the rusting lock on it, Darcy opens the kit to reveal a cluster of things—empty and broken vials that she has yet to dispose of, loose ingredients that she hasn’t had to use yet, a few vials filled with potions of all different colors. She takes out a tiny, silver jar and unscrews the lid, revealing a decent amount of light orange paste.

She looks up at Snape, who’s still hovering awkwardly by the threshold, looking very much like an oversized bat. “Come here,” she says, beckoning him closer. “And sit down.”

“What is that?” Snape asks, walking forward slowly and pulling up a chair. Darcy sits down in the teacher’s chair, moving slightly closer to Snape and showing him the paste.

“It’s what Gemma used to fix my face when I first came home over the summer,” Darcy explains. “Not only does it work on bruises, but hives, as well. I ate crab for the first time over the holiday, and it turns out I’m allergic. Broke out with hives and welts all over my face and hands, but this stuff helped. It might help with you wrist, too.” She holds out her hand, her palm facing upwards, waiting for Snape to offer her his wrist.

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s only right, Professor, after what you’ve done for me.”

It takes him a few moments—Snape glances over towards the door, as if afraid someone will burst in and interrupt them. Finally, he holds out his left hand and Darcy takes it without a second thought, inching his sleeve up slightly to better see the welt on his skin. She can see the very bottom tip of his blackened Dark Mark contrasting against his milky white skin. Darcy tries very hard to ignore it—after all, it’s only very slightly visible—and instead presses some of Gemma’s salve to the large welt, spreading it around with her thumb, letting it sit for a moment.

“How was Occlumency?” she asks distractedly, examining his wrist to see if it’s working.

Snape takes a moment to answer. Darcy raises her eyes from his wrist to his face. “Many of your brother’s happier memories are of you,” he answers, almost sounding puzzled. “I saw—” Snape hesitates, probably worried she’s going to start hitting him again, but he continues when Darcy shows no inclination of doing so. “I saw you reading to him by his bed, and—I saw other things.”

“Go on, then, Professor. What did you see?”

“It wasn’t happy.”

Darcy tenses, her grip on his wrist tightening. “What did you see?”

“Your uncle,” Snape continues. “Hitting you. There was a Christmas tree. You can’t have been more than ten.”

Inhaling deeply, Darcy looks away from him again. “Yeah, well…”

She isn’t sure what compels her to do it. After all the times she’d accidentally touched it and purposefully touched it, Snape had always been furious with her, or at least irritated when she’d done it on purpose. And she had seen it in the hospital wing just last June, from a distance, and not in an intimate setting such as this. The only Dark Mark Darcy has seen so close before was Igor Karkaroff’s, and it had frightened her. Darcy looks up into Snape’s face and holds his gaze for a moment, wondering if he’ll attempt to delve into her mind to see what she’s thinking, but he seems to respect Dumbledore’s wishes that he stop, and Darcy doesn’t feel him penetrate her mind. Yet Darcy has a feeling that Snape knows exactly what she’s thinking without having to perform Legilimency on her.

Still holding Snape’s wrist gently with her left hand, Darcy tears her eyes away from his, back down at the tiny part of his Dark Mark that’s showing. With trembling fingers still slick from the paste, Darcy very carefully and very gingerly begins to lift his sleeve further. Her heart is leaping in her throat as more and more of his Dark Mark is revealed, and she expects Snape to stop her at any time, to hiss with anger or flinch or call her names—but not hurt her, never hurt her. The sight of it makes her incredibly nervous, and as Darcy pushes his sleeve up a little bit more to reveal the entirety of the brand on his forearm, her breath hitches.

He only speaks when Darcy’s fingers hover uncertainly above it. “Don’t touch it,” he says softly, but his tone is still dangerous, still icy and firm. Darcy lowers her hand, looking up to find Snape’s eyes still fixed upon her face. “Does it frighten you?”

Darcy swallows, clenching her jaw. “No,” she rasps, unsure if it’s the truth or not. She lowers her eyes back to his arm, tracing the outline of his Dark Mark with the lightest touch she’s able to give. “I’m not afraid. Does it hurt?”

Snape doesn’t give answer, and Darcy doesn’t push it. As she rolls his sleeve back down, grabbing a rag from her kit and going to wipe the salve off, he says, “Did you mean what you said? At Grimmauld Place?”

She doesn’t need him to elaborate to know what he’s talking about. “Don’t be stupid,” Darcy whispers, blushing. “Of course I meant it.”

Part of her knows Snape isn’t going to tell her that he cares, but the other part of her wishes he would. Darcy wipes the salve off his wrist and the welt is no more. She smiles weakly at him, releasing her grip on his wrist, watching Snape rub the place she’d just tended to. And then, he reaches past her, opening the top drawer of her desk. Darcy smiles wider at the sight of the binder full of sheet music. Snape grabs it and holds it out for her. “Please take it,” he tells her, nearly pushing it into her arms. “I have no use for it.”

“Okay.” Darcy takes the binder from him, holding it awkwardly for a moment. “I’m sorry that I hit you. And said all those things. I didn’t mean to. You really hurt me, you know.”

Snape looks very uncomfortable at this admission. “I am…” He struggles painfully for a moment. “Sorry.”

Darcy feels a queer form of pleasure watching him squirm. “It’s okay.” And then, looking down into her lap, “Please don’t call me names anymore.”

Snape pauses for a moment. “All right.”

Feeling a bit braver, she looks up one more time, looking him in the eyes. “What happened between you and my mother?”

Before he even answers, Darcy knows he isn’t going to tell her. What she doesn’t expect is, “Later, maybe.”

* * *

The news that Hagrid had been put on probation does not, to Darcy—or seemingly anyone else—come as a great shock. She feels guilty for admitting it outloud to Hermione in private, but is relieved to hear Hermione agree with her. Darcy had been so determined to keep her probation a secret that sometimes she honestly forgets about it, but it’s a blow to the ego to be put into a category with Hagrid and Trelawney. Harry had confided in his sister that Umbridge was now taking it upon herself to sit in on all of Trelawney’s and Hagrid’s classes, causing them both to break down.

“She’s waiting to sack one of them,” Harry had said, in the privacy of Darcy’s room. After the most recent Educational Decree banning teachers from giving students information not related to their subjects, Darcy had insisted Harry, Hermione, and Ron stay well away from her in the corridors or in sight of Umbridge. “And I’m sorry, but as much as I feel bad for Trelawney, I’d want her to be sacked over Hagrid.”

Darcy, though she does feel sorry for Trelawney, privately agrees with Harry.

But Darcy can’t help but feel that getting sacked might be the best thing that could happen. She knows the students like her—even if it’s only because she’s a better alternative to Snape, they like her, especially the first years. She’s a good teacher, knows what she’s talking about, the first years have been passing tests with flying colors and are on track to pass end of the year exams, as well. There is no evidence that Darcy is not doing well, and if Umbridge were to sack her, she could always hide out at Grimmauld Place with Sirius and Lupin. She might even become something of a martyr among the D.A. and other Hogwarts students that thought kindly of her, and the idea excites her far more than it should. Perhaps that’s exactly why Umbridge hasn’t sacked her yet—perhaps Umbridge understands that Darcy could quickly become the rallying cry for those students that believe Harry’s story, that believe the Ministry is lying, covering up the return of Voldemort.

“I mean, I’m _not_ a bad teacher,” Darcy says one night, walking back and forth in front of the warm fire. Hermione continues to scribble on her parchment, finishing her Transfiguration essay. “Umbridge just has it out for me—I’m definitely not as crazy as Trelawney. And…” She groans, rubbing her face. “Does it make me a bad person for thinking Hagrid maybe isn’t _that_ great of a teacher? I mean, he’s enthusiastic! But—maybe his lessons could be a little better, right?”

“ _Enthusiastic_ ,” Hermione nods eagerly, looking very seriously at Darcy from her seat upon the sofa. “Yes. I like that. He’s enthusiastic.”

Darcy walks over to her liquor cabinet, procuring some wine as Hermione watches on with her nose scrunched, clearly desperately to tell Darcy off. “Professor Snape says it’s a threat,” she continues, popping the cork out of the bottle with her wand, forgoing a glass to drink straight from the bottle. Hermione looks away, making a small noise of disgust. “He says that once Umbridge sacks someone, I’ll be next, it’s just a matter of when.”

“Haven’t you been saying for months now that as long as you’re with Professor Snape, you won’t have to leave Hogwarts?” Hermione asks, narrowing her eyes at Darcy. “He wouldn’t let Umbridge fire you, would he? Does she even have the authority to do anything with you? I mean, you’re not a real teacher.”

Darcy scowls at Hermione. She’s glad to see Hermione’s cheeks turn slightly pink as she realizes what she’s said. But Darcy sighs, taking another drink from the wine bottle, tapping it with her fingernails. “No one knew that Umbridge was going to start making all these Educational Decrees, no one knew that she was going to put people on probation or threaten termination, nor did anyone know she was going to be as insane as she is.” Another sigh, another drink. “Professor Snape said the only reason she has been satisfied with me remaining at Hogwarts is because I ‘work for him’ and not for Dumbledore, but I don’t know how much longer that’s going to hold up.”

“Then maybe you should stop writing this article,” Hermione insists, glaring at the stack of papers on the counter. “You’re going to put your job on the line, and Snape has done a lot to try and keep you here. It’s disrespectful to ignore that.”

“You don’t think it’s very disrespectful when I’m attending D.A. meetings,” Darcy shoots back, looking down at her tens of pieces of parchment. She scoops them all up and moves quickly to the sofa, flopping down beside Hermione.

“That’s because I know nothing I say will change your mind about those meetings,” Hermione replies coolly. “Even though if Umbridge finds out you’ve been attending, you’ll be thrown in a cell in Azkaban.”

The thought makes Darcy shudder, and Hermione doesn’t fail to notice.

“Look, Darcy,” Hermione sighs, and when Darcy looks over at her, she sees a girl that’s not sixteen, but years older, weary and exasperated and anxious. “What is your goal with this article? Please don’t tell me it’s just to get back at Umbridge.”

Darcy flips through her notes; there are more and more with each passing day. “When she brought that law to the table, she didn’t care if it passed. She meant for me to see it, and she meant for me to react, to get angry. She meant to hurt me—she doesn’t care about Remus, but she knows that I do.”

“And you would be playing right into her hands by publishing something like this,” Hermione retorts.

“So I’m supposed to lay down and let her walk all over me? I’m supposed to ignore it? What kind of friend would I be to Remus if I didn’t say something?” Darcy smiles incredulously, shaking her head at Hermione’s disapproving and nervous look. “I could rally some werewolves—people like Remus who want nothing to do with Voldemort. I could show them that I—that _we_ —care about what happens to them, that we think they matter, that we think they’re people whose lives matter, whose privacy matters.”

“I’ve said it before—that is very admirable and I agree with you wholeheartedly that something should be done, but I don’t think you should be the one to do it,” Hermione counters. “I’m sure Professor Dumbledore has not forgotten about recruiting the werewolves. I’m sure that if Dumbledore wanted your help, he would have asked for it. But he has everyone in the Order to help him, and—”

“Oh, my God,” Darcy breathes, as a very troubling thought catches up with her. She clutches her chest, her heart beating very fast, her eyes wide, her body seemingly doused with what feels like icy water, but is really only fear. Grabbing Hermione’s arm and squeezing tight, she can hardly breathe. “Dumbledore’s—Remus is— _oh, my God_ —Dumbledore sent him to recruit the werewolves.”

Hermione blinks in surprise, prying Darcy’s long fingers off from her arm. “What?”

Darcy takes a deep breath, the creeping feeling of panic taking over. “Before I left—the last day of the holidays—Remus said he was going away for a few weeks to do something for Dumbledore, but he didn’t tell me what—but that’s what it is, isn’t it? I mean, what else could it be?”

“It could be a lot of things,” Hermione says gently, but she doesn’t sound completely convinced herself. “You don’t know for certain that’s what he’s doing.”

“How could Dumbledore have been so reckless and stupid?” Darcy continues, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. “What if I never see him again? He didn’t even give me an exact date he’ll be back—how long must I wait? How long until I have to accept he’s gone forever? Hermione, if I lose him, I will die of a broken heart—”

“Well,” Hermione says slowly, shifting uncomfortably. “That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?”

“ _Dramatic_?” Darcy snarls, and Hermione’s cheeks turn bright pink again. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be me, Hermione? Do you have any idea what it’s like knowing I’ll probably either end up sacked or chucked into Azkaban by the summer? Do you have any idea what I have given up to be here?” She jumps to her feet, needing to move, needing the anger and frustration and guilt and regret and every other feeling in the world to leave her. “Do I love Harry? Yes, absolutely. Do I enjoy being here and teaching? Of course I do. But Dumbledore won’t even tell me why it’s so important that I’m here. He won’t tell me anything, won’t let anyone else tell me anything—it’s like he doesn’t even care about me or what I have sacrificed to be here. I don’t want his apologies anymore—I want answers, I want explanations. I want _answers_.”

“Darcy, what’s—?”

“I need some air,” Darcy replies curtly, leaping to her feet and crossing the room in a few long strides. She pushes the portrait hole open, her chest heaving. Darcy walks quickly through the corridors—they’re mostly empty now, students in their common rooms not wanting to accidentally run into Umbridge during their off time. The thought makes Darcy wish she had brought along the Invisibility Cloak.

It’s only when Darcy reaches the gargoyle outside Dumbledore’s office does she realize she doesn’t know the password. She kicks the gargoyle and swears loudly as pain shoots through her toe.

“Now, why would you do that?” the gargoyle asks her, but Darcy only growls at it in return. “The Headmaster isn’t in, you know. Try again another day.”

“You stupid little—” Darcy inhales deeply, feeling slightly foolish for pointing an accusing finger at a statue that stares down at her quite apathetically. “You’re not even _real_ —”

“Potter, _please_!”

Darcy turns around, blushing furiously at the sight of Professor McGonagall hurrying down the corridor, looking absolutely bewildered at the scene playing out in front of her. Looking slightly harassed the nearer she gets, McGonagall shakes her head, walking quicker than Darcy could have believed of her. “Sorry, Professor,” Darcy says quickly, clearing her throat and feeling her entire face burn hot. “I just, er—really needed to see Professor Dumbledore.”

“Was it necessary to kick the gargoyle, Potter?” she asks, torn between amusement and exasperation. “What good was that going to do?”

“It probably hurt me a lot more than it hurt him,” Darcy shrugs, hoping for a half-smile, but Professor McGonagall only shakes her head again and sighs. “When will Professor Dumbledore be back? I need to speak with him. It’s important.”

“Important?” Professor McGonagall narrows her eyes. When Darcy doesn’t answer right away, McGonagall takes a moment to survey her closely—eyes wandering across her face and noticing how out of breath she seems. “Are you all right, Potter?”

Darcy glances around the empty corridor, wondering if McGonagall could possibly alleviate her worries, wondering if McGonagall has answers for her. “I’m fine,” she says.

McGonagall gives her a skeptical look. “Why don’t you go back to your room, Potter? It’s not a good idea to be wandering corridors, student or no.”

“Yes, Professor.”

Darcy waits until Professor McGonagall is out of sight before walking away from the stone gargoyle (not before holding her middle finger in front of its face), her feet taking her further and further into the depths of the castle. She checks her watch quickly—Snape and Harry’s Occlumency lesson must be over, or at least coming to a close by now. To her dismay, she doesn’t meet Harry in the corridor, however, as she reaches the bowels of the castle, where a warm cloak wrapped around her shoulders would be welcome. The torches light of their own accord as she walks past them, down to the door of Snape’s classroom.

The walk has done her some good—the panicky feeling is no longer present and her head seems a bit clearer. She knows that Snape will offer her no comfort regarding Lupin, but it is nice to seek out the company of someone who will not press her about things she doesn’t want to talk about. Darcy knocks on the door of his classroom.

“It’s me. Can I come in?”

The door swings open to allow her entry. Snape is standing by his desk, lowering his wand and hovering over something. He glances up at her as she walks towards it.

“Whoa,” she breathes. “What is that thing?”

Snape is standing over a shallow stone basin. She assumes it to be a fancy looking cauldron, but the closer she gets, it doesn’t appear to be a cauldron at all. At first glance, it appears to be filled with water, but as Darcy peers inside, she doesn’t think she can quite place the substance it holds at all. Neither liquid nor gas, the silvery material seems to float—if that’s the proper term. The light glimmers brightly and eerily onto her face, and she traces the runes and symbols carved around the outside lightly with her fingers.

“It’s a Pensieve,” Snape explains, dipping his fingers into the substance within and stirring it. “Where memories can be stored and viewed again, as an outside party. Copies of memories are in here—though the memories can be removed completely from one’s mind, as well.”

Darcy chooses not to divulge Harry’s experience with the Pensieve only the previous year, but she’s curious. Far too curious for her own good. The thought of Lupin with the werewolves, and her article are wiped from her brain at the sight of this. “Why is it here?” she asks again.

Snape doesn’t answer. She imitates him, stirring the substance with her fingers. It doesn’t seem to ever really touch Darcy’s fingers, instead threading around them, moving so as not to be disturbed by her flesh.

“Can you show me how it works?”

He seems surprised that she would even ask. Looking cautious and slightly suspicious, Snape purses his lips, thinking for a moment. “All right,” he says. “Think of a memory—any one will do—and focus solely on that one memory. I’m going to extract it from your head—make a copy—and place it in the Pensieve.”

Darcy grins, closing her eyes. “Okay.”

“Are you thinking of it?”

“Yes.”

“Why are your eyes closed?”

Her eyes flutter open and her smile falters. Darcy blushes. “I don’t know,” she shrugs. “It just seemed like the proper thing to do.”

Snape gives an exasperated sigh, raising his wand and pressing the tip gently to her temple. “It won’t hurt. Watch.”

He’s right—it doesn’t hurt at all. Darcy flinches at first when he begins to pull his wand away. Something comes with it—the same silvery substance that clings to the tip of Snape’s wand, that floats in midair like some sort of ghost. He places it into the Pensieve and looks at her. The substance continues to swirl as if undisturbed by another memory.

“Do you want to go first, or shall I?”

“I will,” she says quickly, her heart racing with anticipation. Harry had described it before, had described being in a memory and falling through the Pensieve, and Darcy finds the excitement is almost too much. “How do I do it?”

“Put your face close.” Snape puts a hand on her shoulder as she leans in closer to the Pensieve. “Closer…”

But the rest of Snape’s words are incoherent as she falls through it. It’s cold and it’s dark and for a moment, Darcy feels as if she’s drowning again. She opens her mouth to scream as she continues to fall into nothingness, and then—

“Whoa!”

Darcy is looking at herself and Snape, from not five minutes ago. She examines herself, as if seeing herself for the first time. Neither the memory-Darcy or the memory-Snape seem to notice the intrusion, so Darcy moves closer to herself as another Snape appears where she’d been standing a few seconds ago. When she tries to touch herself, to stroke her long red hair, Darcy’s fingers go right through her memory-self.

“It’s a Pensieve,” comes Snape’s voice again. Darcy watches the memory-Snape dip his fingers into the Pensieve again. “Where memories can be stored and viewed again, as an outside party.”

“Twenty years worth of memories, and you choose this one?” the Snape beside Darcy asks, looking around his classroom. “Not even something a little more interesting?”

Darcy bristles. “I was under pressure,” she snaps. “I just wanted to see how it worked.”

“And now you’ve seen.”

Snape claps a hand on Darcy’s shoulder, and within seconds, she’s being pulled through the pressing darkness again. It isn’t as terrifying this time with a hand upon her shoulder, something sturdy in the nothingness, and then she’s back in the present day office again.

They stand in silence for a moment—Darcy watching the contents of the Pensieve, Snape watching Darcy. She looks up at him finally, feeling foolish for asking the question that spills from her lips. “Professor, you said that it’s possible to extract a memory completely from someone’s mind.” She hesitates. “You could take any memory? Any bad memory? Just the one? You could just...make me forget?”

He shakes his head slightly. “I know what you’re thinking, Darcy,” Snape says in an uncharacteristically soft voice. “It would be most unwise to remove a memory that has influenced you so.”

Darcy looks away from him, back into the glittering light of the Pensieve.

“Memories make us who we are,” he continues. “If I were to take that memory from you, you might not be the same person afterwards. It might change you as a person completely.”

She fingers the rim of the Pensieve. “I want to see it. The memory.”

What little color had been in Snape’s face is now completely drained. “Perhaps that’s not—” But he cuts off suddenly, and clears his throat. “Are you positive?”

Darcy’s not at all positive, but she nods anyway. “I want you to come with me.”

Snape pauses, tensing visibly. “Me?”

Darcy nods again. She can’t help but feeling this may be the worst idea she’s ever had, but the idea of watching the memory play out in front of her—not a nightmare, or even a dream—is enticing for reasons unknown. A kind of closure she’s never known—a kind of closure she may never get the chance to have again. And the idea of doing this with Snape at her side is strange—Darcy wishes she could have anyone else by her side for this. She considers briefly watching it alone, but the prospect frightens her too much. She wants Lupin to be here, or Sirius, or Harry or Gemma—she wouldn’t be so hesitant to share something so intimate with them.

“Darcy, I—” Snape looks away from her suddenly, turning his back on her. “I can’t.”

“Then take the memory out of me and I’ll do it alone.”

“No,” he says again, louder this time, regaining his usual manner very quickly. “No, Darcy. You ask too much.”

Darcy knows it is no use to keep asking. The exciting atmosphere of the room is completely gone—her curiosity now grief and sadness. “I shouldn’t have come here.” She wraps her arms around herself. “Goodnight.”

Darcy returns to her room to find Hermione has gone, but her notes on the table have clearly been touched. Grumbling under her breath, swearing, Darcy freezes as she goes to clean up, picking up a piece of parchment. Hermione has left her own notes, things she thinks Darcy should add to the article, things she thinks should be taken out, comments on some of her favorite parts. Feeling slightly touched, Darcy leaves the notes be, planning to return to them in the morning.

As she changes for bed, she picks up one of the loose photographs on the nightstand. Her new favorite picture—one taken by Hermione on Christmas evening. The lighting is warm and cozy from the orange glow of the fire and the dim light coming from the gas lamps. In front of a beautiful Christmas tree, lit by the charm Lupin had taught them, are four smiling people.

Sirius is on the left end, legs stretched out in front of him, lazy smile on his face, his long dark hair framing his handsome face. His left arm is draped around Harry’s shoulders. Harry’s knees are held close to his chest, his hair tousled—just like always—and his glasses have caught a slight glare, but there’s a tired expression on his face; his wide grin almost looks out of place. Next to Harry is Darcy, her right arm looped around Harry’s and her left looped around Lupin’s and her cheek against his shoulder. Lupin’s hand is resting lightly on her knee. The goofy smile she adores so much is glued to his face, a shy smile on Darcy’s own face.

As disappointed as she is about the end of her visit with Snape, Darcy can’t help but to think maybe he did the right thing by refusing to take the memory. All his talk of memories makes her think—how would not remembering her mother’s death change her in a bad way? She might not have to dream about it anymore, she likely wouldn’t see the thestrals, maybe she wouldn’t feel the same love for Sirius.

The bed is empty—seemingly bigger than usual. Darcy reaches a hand out as if someone is lying beside her, but her fingers do not touch the rough, scarred skin that belongs to Lupin, and the smooth flesh of Gemma’s arm isn’t there either.

She rolls over, wondering—as she slips into sleep—if Snape could take the memory of tonight, at least.

* * *

“Darcy, we told you to write an article, not a novel,” Gemma sighs, looking over at Emily from her place upon the bed. There are several pieces of parchment in Emily’s hands, each filled with tiny and blotched writing. “That’s too long. You’ll have to do some heavy editing, and then we’ll talk publishing.”

“I don’t know,” Emily says lazily, reading still. “I like it. It’s long, but you’ve certainly gotten your point across. I like this part here—about introducing werewolves into the curriculum at Hogwarts as not just creatures, but the struggles they’ve endured.”

“Binns did a short segment on a few laws that’ve been passed in our seventh year,” Gemma points out, spinning before the mirror to admire her new dress. “Though, not sure how much of it anyone actually heard…you know what he’s like.”

Everyone is quiet again for a moment as Emily finishes reading. She gives the article a puzzled look, flipping quickly through the pages again. “You haven’t mentioned Lupin at all in this.” Emily looks up at Darcy. “Or did I miss it?”

“No,” Darcy replies sheepishly. She looks over the top of Gemma’s most recent copy of _Witch Weekly_ , over to Emily, seated at the writing desk. “Everyone already knows. I’m not going to exploit him.”

“When’s he supposed to come back, anyway?” Emily taps her chin lightly, watching Gemma twirl with a glazed look in her eyes. “I haven’t heard anything about it from anyone in the Order. He said Dumbledore asked him?”

“You mean no one told you?” Darcy asks, frowning. “No one said anything about it?”

“Sirius told me he’d be gone for a little while when I dropped by Tuesday.” Gemma sounds slightly bitter about it. “He didn’t even say goodbye.”

“Tonks said he didn’t say goodbye to her, either,” Emily says matter-of-factly.

“No offense to Tonks or anything,” Gemma continues, her voice sharp as a whip. “But after all the time he and I spent together, and after all that I’ve told him, I sincerely hope by now I’m a few tiers higher than Tonks on the friendship scale.”

Emily ignores her. “Did he say anything to you, Darcy?”

Darcy shrugs, the memory of Lupin giving such gentle kisses on her shoulder making her sad. “He told me he was leaving for a few weeks. He didn’t tell me the nature of the mission.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Gemma says quickly, as if reading Darcy’s mind. “This isn’t exactly his first time fighting You-Know-Who, is it? He’s a big boy. He knows what he’s doing.”

Darcy flirts with the idea of telling her friends about what Harry had found out about the door he’d been dreaming of, the door where Mr. Weasley had been attacked. She tries to make herself sound as casual as possible, her face hidden behind the magazine. “What’s in the Department of Mysteries?”

It’s much too forward, and Darcy regrets it. Gemma turns sharply to look peculiarly at Darcy, and Emily tenses in her seat. “Looking into a career change?” Gemma teases feebly. “No one knows what they do in there.”

“Broderick Bode,” Darcy says again, lowering the magazine. “Snape said he worked in the Department of Mysteries. He was killed a few weeks ago. It was in the _Prophet_.”

“It was a mistake—”

“Don’t be stupid, Em. It wasn’t a mistake. Someone killed him.”

“Anyway, I think Dumbledore’s sent Lupin to recruit the werewolves,” Emily says loudly, exchanging a wary look with Gemma. Though it annoys Darcy, she’s glad Emily has said this, glad that someone else has presented the idea Darcy was slightly fearful of presenting herself. “So I don’t think we should publish any articles about werewolves at all until he’s back and we know he’s safe.”

“Dumbledore wouldn’t send him to the werewolves,” Gemma protests, sounding confident enough to almost convince Darcy without an explanation. “The _Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly_ just spent nearly a year writing about he and Darcy, and putting out photographs. They’ll know who he is.”

Darcy licks her lips, chewing the inside of her cheek for a moment, waiting for someone to answer her unasked questions.

Gemma turns again, speaking directly to Darcy. “He may not look it to us, but to other werewolves—particularly those who’ve gone into hiding among other werewolves—it will be clear he’s been attempting to live among us. That, in addition to the fact it’s public knowledge he’s been involved with a certain Darcy Potter, I’m sure the werewolves wouldn’t take to him.”

“If you publish an article defending werewolves, there may be some who take offense to it—they’ll think you’re taking pity on them instead of empathizing.” Emily sighs heavily, running a hand through her hair. “If there’s even the slightest chance he is with the werewolves, we can’t publish this. I’m not going to willingly put him into more danger.”

Neither Gemma nor Darcy disagree. It’s not long after that Emily takes her leave. Darcy and Gemma walk her to the front door, crossing paths with Sirius.

“Hi, Sirius,” Emily says breathlessly, her cheeks suddenly flushed.

“Hi,” Sirius replies automatically. “Gemma, you staying the night?”

“If that’s all right,” Gemma answers with a small smile, waving at a furiously blushing Emily as she slips out the door.

Sirius and Gemma spend the evening playing chess in the drawing room, but Darcy keeps to herself, shut up in her bedroom. Spending time with two people who become loud and obnoxious and crass in each other’s company isn’t something really appeals to Darcy at the moment, not with her head so full of thoughts. She wishes she could have her own Pensieve to lighten the load, to siphon off some of the thoughts that make her temples throb angrily. Thoughts of Snape and his refusal to let her see her own memory, thoughts of Lupin and the anxiety that he may not come back (why hadn’t she said a better goodbye? Why hadn’t she kissed him one last time? Why hadn’t the weight of his decision hit her until after he’d gone?), thoughts of Dumbledore and his own quiet reasons as to why Darcy needs to be at Hogwarts.

She looks through her photographs, flipping through the loose ones she’d taken of Lupin over the holidays. Retrieving the last photograph she’d taken, that day in her bed when he had told her he was leaving, Darcy lies back on her pillows, holding it gingerly with her fingers. Her thumbs brush over his face, momentarily hiding the goofy smile that sets her heart to racing. She closes her eyes, her breathing shaky, trying to imagine Lupin in bed with a picture of her, thinking only of her, soft moans escaping from his parted lips.

But the picture of him doing such things doesn’t excite her in the slightest. It makes Darcy’s stomach churn and it makes her sad and a lump forms in her throat and all she wants to do is cry. She forces herself not to, even though the tears sting her eyes. When Gemma crawls into bed stinking of wine, she groans as she gets comfortable, quiet for a moment.

“I think Sirius was flirting with me.” Gemma pulls the blankets up to her chin. “Should I tell Emily? Or should I save that piece of juicy information for when she really pisses us off?”

“Gemma,” Darcy breathes. Empty, and aching for affection, Darcy takes Gemma’s hand and places it upon her cheek. “What if he doesn’t come back?”

“He’ll come back.”

Darcy nuzzles into Gemma’s warm palm, the tears spilling down her cheeks without warning. “What if he doesn’t?”

“Darcy, he’ll come back.”

Gemma takes hold of her face, wiping Darcy’s tears as she sobs against Gemma’s hands. When it’s clear Darcy isn’t going to stop crying, Gemma wraps her arms around her. It’s more comforting than Darcy can say. “I’m sorry,” Darcy cries softly.

“It’s okay,” Gemma whispers, smoothing Darcy’s hair back. “It’s okay.”

“Gemma,” Darcy breathes again, her face pressed against Gemma’s shoulder. “I don’t want you to leave us. I don’t want you to leave me.”

”Why would I leave you?”

”If you have to choose between us and your family—” Darcy trails off, not wanting to upset Gemma more. 

Gemma is quiet for a long time, and Darcy thinks she can feel tears against her temple. Gemma squeezes Darcy tighter. It’s a few minutes before Darcy realizes she isn’t going to get an answer, but maybe lying there in bed with Gemma, arms around each other, crying against each other, sharing their fears together, lying completely exposed beside each other—maybe that’s answer enough.

* * *

Moonlight Sonata again. A hopeless plea for Lupin to come back to her—a desperate wish that he will somehow find his way back to her through the melody, kissing the crook of her neck as it comes to a close, kissing her hard on the mouth when she puts her hands in her lap. The song is floating through the house when Snape arrives to fetch her that night, to bring her back to Hogwarts. He stands in the threshold, waiting patiently for the song to end, and when it does, Darcy turns in her seat to face him.

“You’re getting better,” he notes stiffly.

“Thank you.”

“Are you ready?”

Darcy nods, picking up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. She says a quick goodbye to Sirius, where Snape has the decency to give them a moment alone. He’s waiting on the front step for her, and when he holds out his gloved hand for her, Darcy takes it carelessly, feeling herself being pulled away from Grimmauld Place.

There’s a carriage waiting at the gates to take them up to the castle. Darcy is very grateful as she climbs inside, holding her arms around her as the thestrals begin their journey up the grounds of Hogwarts. The carriage rattles as they sit in silence, looking out of the windows. Snape seemingly tries his hardest to ignore her, his hands deep in the pockets of his robes. Darcy looks at him for a long time.

“What happened between you and my mother?”

He doesn’t answer. He does not even acknowledge that she has spoken. Darcy heaves a great sigh.

“Do you know poetry, Professor Snape? Muggle poetry?”

“No.”

“Can I tell you one?”

“Fine.”

Darcy opens her mouth to speak, but becomes discouraged at once when Snape forces himself to continue looking out of the window. “Never mind. If you don’t want to hear it, you can just say so.”

“I’m listening, Darcy.”

“Okay.” She inhales deeply. “I don’t remember the entirety of it. I only just read it for the first time a few weeks ago. But there are some lines I really like, that remind me of dad.”

A muscle jumps in Snape’s jaw. “Go on.”

“The first lines are—‘Time does not bring relief; you all have lied, Who told me time would ease us of our pain!’”

She pauses here, and Snape turns his head very slightly to look at her out of the corner of his eye.

“And then there’s another part,” Darcy says, as the carriage continues to bring them closer to the lights of Hogwarts. “‘There are a hundred places where I fear to go,—so with his memory they brim. And entering with relief some quiet place, where never fell his foot or shone his face, I say, “there is no memory of him here!” And so stand stricken, so remembering him.’”

“Touching.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Professor,” Darcy frowns, blushing. “If you don’t like it, just say so, please.”

Snape looks curiously at her for a few seconds. As the carriage rolls up to the front of the castle and comes to a halt, they don’t immediately get out. “Wednesday, at nine o’clock, after your brother’s Occlumency lesson,” he begins softly. “Come to my office.”

“Why?”

He seems very cautious, as if he is saying this against his better judgement, as if this is the last thing he wants to say. “You show me yours,” he says, “and I’ll show you mine.”

Darcy blinks in surprise. “What?”

But Snape is already sweeping up the steps into the castle when she is able to get the question out. She watches after him until he’s out of sight. The thestrals pulling the carriage snorts loudly, shifting restlessly, clearing waiting for her to get out.

“Sorry,” she mutters, climbing out of the carriage, her curiosity piqued, unable to wait until Wednesday night, wishing Snape would have used a different saying after asking her to meet him in his office. 


	41. Chapter 41

“You are coming to Hogsmeade for Valentine’s Day, aren’t you?”

“Believe it or not, I’m not in a very romantic mood these days. Thought I’d just go home and drown myself in hard liquor.”

“Your little jokes aren’t funny, you know,” Hermione huffs impatiently. “They’re just sad.”

“Who said it was a joke?” Darcy answers, starting up one of the staircases, holding onto the railing as it shakes beneath her feet and begins to move. She looks over her shoulder, raising her eyebrows at an exasperated Hermione, standing a few steps below her. “No offense, Hermione, but I’d rather go home than hang out with a bunch of kids on Valentine’s Day.”

“Look,” Hermione says, catching up to Darcy as the staircase comes to a stop and they reach the landing. She lowers her voice and looks around the corridor. A few Ravenclaws pass them without a word, some third and fourth years. When they turn the corner, Hermione continues. “I’ve found someone who will publish your article.”

Darcy freezes, looking around quickly, grabbing Hermione’s hand, and pulling her into an empty classroom just down the corridor. “Who is it?”

“You know Luna Lovegood? Fourth year Ravenclaw girl?”

“Yes, I know her.”

“Her father is the editor for _The Quibbler_ , and she’s willing to meet with me in Hogsmeade.” Looking slightly anxious, Hermione wrings her hands together. “I thought since Umbridge wouldn’t let Harry tell the truth about Voldemort either, that we could publish his first hand account of that night.”

Darcy narrows her eyes. “Have you asked Harry about this?”

“Well—” Hermione sighs. “No, not yet. He’s asked Cho Chang to go with him to Hogsmeade, and I’d rather her not be there when he gives his account. I don’t want to upset her, but—”

“He’s asked Cho Chang? And he didn’t tell me?”

“Well, they kissed the night Mr. Weasley was attacked, so I thought you would have just assumed—”

“Harry and Cho kissed?” Darcy is momentarily outraged that her brother has kept this piece of information from her. She decides to give him a little more time—it’s possible with the excitement of that night, he had just forgotten to tell her. “After all I told him about me and Remus…”

Hermione seems pleased to be off the subject of the article. It’s the slightly too eager look on her face that brings Darcy back to reality.

“Who will be writing it?” Darcy asks again, crossing her arms over her chest. “Emily?”

“No—I thought about asking Emily, but the Ministry would fire her, I’m sure, if she associated herself publicly with Harry. I thought Rita Skeeter might write it. You know she would do it if it meant the chance to interview Harry.”

Darcy has to take a deep breath to keep herself from lashing out on Hermione. It seems Hermione has sensed how close Darcy is to snapping, and the fear shows on her face. “Hermione, what good do you think could possibly come out of this?” she hisses. “You think Harry would want to tell Rita Skeeter—of all people—what happened the night in that graveyard?”

“She’ll write only what Harry tells her and nothing else,” Hermione says quickly. “Or else I’ll tell everyone she’s an illegal Animagus.”

“Leave him alone, Hermione,” Darcy replies, shaking her head. “Harry has enough to deal with right now. Besides, everyone knows _The Quibbler_ is nonsense. No one would take Harry’s story seriously if it was published there. And with Remus gone, I can’t publish anything. We’d have to wait until he was back.”

“It would be in next month’s edition,” Hermione protests, sounding hopeful. “He’ll be back by next month, won’t he? He said he’d be gone for a couple of weeks, and it _has_ been a couple of weeks. He’s due back any day now.”

“Unless he’s hurt,” Darcy frowns, panic taking over quickly.

“I’m sure if something happened to Lupin, someone would know. Dumbledore would know. And he’d tell you, wouldn’t he?”

This gives Darcy more comfort than she’d thought possible. Of course Dumbledore would know if Lupin was hurt, if something had happened. Of course he would tell Darcy if something bad had happened to him—wouldn’t he? After all, Lupin had said he’d be gone for maybe a few weeks, and four weeks isn’t really that long, is it? The only way Darcy has been able to get through the week sometimes was to tell herself— _next weekend, he’ll be home next weekend_. Some days Gemma’s words have been the most comforting— _this isn’t his first time doing this, he’s fought Voldemort before_. She wishes that Lupin had given her a more exact date, or at least a vague sense of what he’d be doing. She wishes she would have told him how much she loves him, kissed him as if for the last time, left kisses all over his face until he laughed, just like they used to.

Darcy runs a hand through her hair, looking around at the abandoned classroom. The desks are dusty and clearly haven’t been used for years. The blackboard is filled with graffiti from students who have, likely due to some exciting circumstance, been hidden inside. “I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe we should talk about this later, and somewhere a bit more—private.”

Hermione reluctantly agrees, and they exit the classroom together. The corridor is empty now, but Nearly Headless Nick is floating towards them as they close the door. He greets them both with a dramatic bow that almost makes his partially severed head fall up. Thankfully, Nick straightens up just in time, securing his head and adjusting the ruffle around his neck.

“Good evening, ladies,” he says, flashing them both a tired smile. “I should warn you—Mr. Filch and Professor Umbridge are making their way down here now. I’d run if I were you before she catches you wandering about the castle.”

“What are Umbridge and Filch scheming now?” Darcy groans, suddenly itching to walk the opposite way before it’s too late.

“Something about _you_ , actually,” Nick answers curiously, his eyes flicking lazily up and down Darcy. “You best make sure you don’t have anything incriminating lying about your room, Miss Potter. It seems she is under the impression you are helping to hide the mass murderer, Sirius Black, and she wants proof.”

“It’s a lie,” Darcy says quickly, exchanging a small glance with Hermione.

“I do not know nor care whether or not it is true,” Nick replies, urging them along the corridor, and Darcy’s grateful he presents the idea first. She and Hermione walk quickly, with Nick floating at Darcy’s other side. “Many years I’ve known you, Darcy, and a shame it would be to see them put you in Azkaban.”

“Thanks, Nick,” Darcy says flatly as they part ways, Nick floating right through a wall. She looks abruptly at Hermione. “Wish we had the Invisibility Cloak. We could hear what they’re saying.”

“You don’t have anything incriminating in your room, do you?” Hermione whispers, glancing over her shoulder as they hurry down a staircase.

“Pictures of us,” Darcy confesses. “I have my photo albums. I’ll just—keep them at home from now on, I suppose. And some letters. It’s no big deal.”

“You should make sure they’ll well hidden and safe in case she tries to start Summoning things from your room. I wouldn’t put it past her to try and break in.”

The Summoning part worries her slightly, but she isn’t prepared to admit it in front of Hermione. “She can’t get in. The portrait that guards the door only permits certain people in, and Umbridge isn’t one of them.” They walk in silence for a little bit, nearing the portrait Darcy has just spoken of. “I miss being a student, you know? If I could do seventh year over again, despite everything that had happened, not knowing what I know now…I wouldn’t have done anything differently.”

“Nothing?” Hermione asks softly. They both stop outside the portrait to Darcy’s room, leaning against the cool, stone wall. The woman in the portrait doesn’t rush them, quietly shushing the squirming baby seemingly waking from a nap.

Darcy smiles weakly to herself. “Maybe would have kissed Remus the moment I met him. Maybe told him I loved him the moment he smiled at me.” Both she and Hermione chuckle. “I wouldn’t have let Peter leave the Shrieking Shack alive.”

“It it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else,” Hermione answers consolingly. “You wouldn’t have wanted that hanging over you, would you?”

“I don’t know.” Darcy shrugs, focusing intently on her feet, chewing her lower lip, “To watch the man who turned in my parents be killed by the two men I love would have given me some perverted sort of closure, I suppose.” She realizes at once how bitter and cold the words sound coming out of her mouth.

“Darcy, I know this all sounds crazy, but this might be your only chance to get your article published, and with Harry giving his story, yours won’t seem so terrible beside his.”

“What do you mean, _terrible_?” Darcy scowls, flushing. “My article is not terrible—even you said it was good—”

“I didn’t mean the quality of it was terrible, I meant that, published in a magazine with a headliner story about Voldemort coming back—people might not think you’re so…”

“Just say it, Hermione.”

Hermione seems relieved at this instruction. “So crazy.” Maybe she thinks the words come out a bit too bluntly, so she plows on. “Once Harry comes forward and people realize what the Ministry has been covering up, they’ll be more inclined to listen to you. If you’re not going to give this up—like I’ve recommended—then maybe this is the best way to go about it.”

“People already think I’m crazy,” Darcy scoffs, trying to seem unaffected. “Hermione, do you think I don’t know what could happen if this is published?”

“No,” Hermione says quickly, defensively. “No, I know you’re well aware of what could happen, but I wish you’d at least try to prevent it from happening. You’re being reckless. I think Sirius is rubbing off on you.”

“Sirius isn’t rubbing off on me,” Darcy snaps, looking around the corridor again and lowering her voice. “You heard Nick—Umbridge is looking for evidence against me, so I may not be here much longer.” She runs a hand through her hair. “I won’t go to Azkaban. I won’t. I’d rather die before going to Azkaban, but that doesn’t mean I will do nothing and wait patiently for something to happen to me. Talk to Lovegood about getting the article published and it’ll be the last article I ever write. Deal?”

Hermione looks hesitant.

“Hermione, you’re the one who offered to get it published. Shake my hand.”

“I know I was, I just—oh, all right.” Hermione grasps Darcy’s hand firmly, raising her eyebrows and looking very nervous. “But on your own head be it.”

* * *

Tuesday her nerves begin to affect her. During meals, her leg bounces, but Snape ignores it and doesn’t say a word to stop her, nor does he acknowledge what he’d said to her Sunday evening. Darcy knows far too well by now not to bring it up, for she likely will not get an explanation until she’s standing in Snape’s office tomorrow at nine o’clock. Harry catches her in the corridor as she walks back to her room as lunch comes to an end, planning on feeding Max a few treats before the start of next class.

“Were you going to tell me about Cho Chang?” Darcy asks him with a slight frown, allowing him into her room. She catches sight of his face turning pink, looking indignant.

“It’s nothing,” Harry stammers, avoiding her eyes. “I didn’t want you to embarrass me.”

“You thought I would have embarrassed you?” It’s hard to pretend these words don’t sting her. “I wouldn’t have done that.”

“You would have made it awkward.”

“I wouldn’t have made it awkward.” Darcy whistles, coercing Max out of her bedroom and to her shoulder. She digs around in a cabinet for some owl treats, letting Max eat them happily from the palm of her hand. “I told you all that stuff about me and Remus, and that was way worse than you and Cho.”

“It’s whatever. I’ve got other things on my mind,” Harry says, clearly done discussing Cho. “Like Occlumency.”

Darcy feels she needs to be careful with this subject, half afraid Harry is going to blow up on her for something Snape has done. She shoos Max away, examining her nails. “How is Occlumency anyway?”

Harry scoffs. “What? Snape hasn’t been telling you everything?”

“Why should he?”

“You’re his favorite, aren’t you?” Harry asks sharply, and Darcy frowns, looking up into her brother’s face. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to have Snape read your mind for hours at a time? Do you have any idea what it’s like for him to see things that are extremely personal?”

Darcy doesn’t want to admit it, but she does have a slight idea what sharing something personal, private, and intimate with Snape is like. “Well, are you getting any better?” she asks in a mock cheerful voice, knowing it’s no use trying to console him now, not when Harry’s temper has been tapped. “Gemma says Occlumency is a branch of magic that’s very difficult to master. She says if you don’t practice everyday—”

“No offense, Darcy, but I don’t care what Gemma says about Occlumency,” Harry sighs, taking his glasses off to rub at his eyes furiously with his knuckles. Darcy quiets, blushing bright in the firelight. “Snape keeps telling me to close my mind, to empty myself of emotions before going to sleep—how am I supposed to do that? How am I supposed to just not dream of that door?”

“You shouldn’t be dreaming about the door anymore at all,” Darcy tells him sternly, giving him a hard look, but Harry doesn’t back down. “That’s what you’re learning Occlumency for in the first place.”

“Then Snape’s done a pretty terrible job, hasn’t he? He hasn’t been helping at all.” Harry pushes his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose, his fingertips tapping the countertop distractedly as he looks into the fire. “Besides, I’m almost there. Some nights I almost think I’m going to finally open the door. I always get so close.”

Darcy hesitates, looking Harry over warily. “Forget the door, Harry.”

“Behind that door is the weapon,” Harry says, and Darcy wonders if he has said this to Ron or Hermione. “Aren’t you at all curious what the weapon is if it’s not me? Don’t you want to know what’s hidden behind the door that Voldemort wants to reach so badly?”

The idea certainly tempts her, but the thought of Harry keeping his mind open to Voldemort frightens her. To leave the connection open between her brother and Voldemort could possibly mean learning things about Darcy, finding out where she goes to each weekend, finding out where Sirius is and Lupin and all the people she cared about. It means that Voldemort could possibly learn the truth about Snape. But to know what the weapon is—to have a one up on Voldemort, to be able to impress the Order with this knowledge. After all, Gemma had openly admitted she didn’t know what the weapon was. What’s the chance the rest of the Order knows?

“Of course I want to know what the weapon is,” Darcy answers sheepishly. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t think you should try and work harder at Occlumency. Professor Dumbledore wanted you to learn for a reason.”

“Then tell Snape to lay off,” Harry snarls, his eyes flashing. “He’s unbearable, vindictive, and I can’t believe that you’re able to spend entire days with him without wanting to throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, unsure of what to even say. “I’m able to spend days with him because I want to be here at Hogwarts, with you.” Not entirely a lie, not entirely the truth, Darcy thinks it a good answer.

Harry looks at Darcy, trying to hold her gaze, but he only sighs deeply and immediately softens. “Sorry,” he mutters.

Darcy ruffles his hair, messing it up even more, smiling weakly. She’s surprised Harry even lets her kiss his head. “It’s okay.”

* * *

Her heart beats faster than she’s ever known it to beat all throughout Wednesday. Snape does a good enough job ignoring her for the most part, barely talking to her, but Darcy can’t help but notice he doesn’t look well. He seems tense and rather anxious the entire day, his complexion more pallid than usual, and Snape refuses to meet her eyes even across a crowded classroom.

By the end of the day, she’s panicking. She had thought, at first, Snape might tell her what had happened all those years ago between he and Lily, but now Darcy can’t help but to think of other things. What if he’s setting her up? What if his visible state of anxiety is because something is going to happen to her? What if—and Darcy sincerely hopes this is not the case—Snape had asked her to meet in his office in order to confess something else completely? To try and make a move on her? Truthfully, it seems a little far-fetched, but the idea still makes her squirm regardless. _You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine_ , he’d said. Why did he have to say something so cryptic and _awkward_? Doesn’t he ever think before he speaks? Did he walk away mentally kicking himself for saying something stupid like that?

She paces for hours in her bedroom, having told the portrait to not allow anyone in. She smokes the rest of the cigarettes in the pack Gemma had given her, takes a few shots of firewhisky until her chest is feeling pleasantly warm and she’s feeling a little braver. By a quarter after eight, she’s starting to feel nauseous. Darcy is sure once she opens her mouth to speak, she’ll vomit at her feet solely due to her nerves. She can’t figure out why she’s so nervous, why she’s so anxious about what will be awaiting her inside Snape’s office, but whatever it is, she will get through it, just like she’s gotten through everything else in her life, and Snape will be there, Snape who would never let any harm come to her if he could help it.

So at a quarter to nine, Darcy gathers her courage and leaves her room, exiting to an empty corridor. Each step that takes her further down to Snape’s office is seemingly automatic. Darcy doesn’t think she could stop her feet even if she wanted to. The corridors grow darker and colder with each staircase she descends, and when she reaches the dungeons, the torches in their iron sconces on the walls do little to help her vision or warm her. In fact, Darcy thinks she’s grown quite used to the cool, dank atmosphere of the dungeons, but they suddenly seem very unfamiliar and makes Darcy feel as if she’s walking to her death.

Nothing that could possibly happen tonight will be good, she’s sure. She’s sure both she and Snape are going to expose themselves completely, to show each other they care about each other. But Darcy doesn’t want to do that anymore—Darcy doesn’t want Snape to see what she has buried deep inside of her. She’s much more comfortable telling him—it’s easier to just say the words, to hold onto his arm to affirm she isn’t afraid. The thought of revealing something so private to Snape that she hadn’t even shown Remus makes her more anxious, and her heart is drumming a loud and painful funeral march against her chest, threatening to split her chest right there. It echoes in her ears, along with her light footsteps against the flagged stone floor.

_It’s okay, it’s okay_ , she tells herself, trying to control her breathing. Everything is going to be okay. Unsure if it will make her feel any better, Darcy tries to think of things she’s done that were worse than this that she’s survived. She’s looked Voldemort in the face before, and she survived. Did her heart throb like this then? Did she understand who she was looking at? She doesn’t remember—it was so long ago. What about when she had jumped down the trapdoor all those years ago into the Devil’s Snare? Was she as frightened then? For a moment she had been, as the plant had wrapped around her neck and gagged her, all while she had tried to scream at Hermione to do something. She had been frightened when Ron had sacrificed himself during the chess match, had felt guilty for allowing Harry to go on alone.

The Chamber of Secrets had been a different fear. The adrenaline that had coursed through her veins had kept her going. It was less the memory of Tom Riddle and more the actual chamber itself—the tiny animal bones crunching underfoot, the foreboding and threatening statues, the blinded basilisk chasing after Darcy and Harry through the damp pipes. She had ignored the paralyzing fear then to keep Harry and Ginny alive—she had almost been accepting of it, of the fact that the Chamber of Secrets might have been her final resting place.

But perhaps Darcy’s meeting with Aragog is the closest thing to this. She remembers how Aragog’s words had been drowned out by the thumping of her heart in her ears. She thought she was going to pass out in the backseat of the Ford Anglia with Fang drooling all over her, whining and stepping on her stomach out of panic and fear. She, Harry, and Ron had all held hands walking back up to the castle, their palms sweaty, Ron white as a ghost and Darcy shaking violently all over.

_I faced a giant fucking spider_ , Darcy says to herself, approaching the door of Snape’s office. _I can do this. If I can do anything, it is this._

She glances down at her watch. Nine o’clock exactly. Raising a hand to knock, the door opens after she knocks just once. Snape is already inside, seated at his desk, his quill hovering over an ungraded essay. The Pensieve is beside his desk, the contents within giving off that bone chilling light, one that makes her shiver. She doesn’t know why, but the Pensieve is suddenly not something she’s ready to dive into now—it’s not as inviting, not as curious. Instead, Darcy is slightly afraid of it, hesitant and wary, her eyes roving over the runes carved around it, runes she isn’t familiar with, and she thinks she did all right in Ancient Runes. These symbols are foreign to her, and it’s only when Snape finally acknowledges her presence does she tear her eyes away from it.

“Are you afraid?” Snape asks softly, waving his wand to close the door behind her. Darcy hears the lock click.

Darcy swallows hard, looking quickly at the Pensieve again. He’s going to let me watch my own memory. He’s going to actually do it. “Yes,” she admits.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks again, and it seems like he’s expecting her to change her mind.

“Yes,” Darcy answers, her confidence wavering. She wishes she’d have brought the entire bottle of firewhiskey.

Snape rises slowly to his feet and beckons her forward. Her legs feeling like jelly, Darcy walks up to the side of the Pensieve, holding onto the edge so tightly her knuckles turn white. Her hands are shaking. Her entire body is shaking. “At any time, we can leave,” he warns her, noticing her reluctance. “Tell me, and I will pull the both of us out without question.”

Darcy nods slowly, her face drained of color, she’s sure of it. _Why am I doing this? Do I want to know what happened between Snape and my mother that badly? Or is this for myself? To get the closure I think this will bring?_

“There will be things in this memory that you probably didn’t notice the first time,” Snape continues. “This is your last chance to walk out the door and forget this nonsense. If you leave now, I will not think any differently of you, Darcy. What happens in this office will stay in this office, however. Do you understand me?”

His words calm her immensely. “Yes.”

When she makes no move towards the door, Snape nods, holding his wand up. Darcy takes a quick look around his office now that she’s calmed down a bit. It’s clear Snape has prepared for this, and it means more to her than she could possibly say. On his desk is what is unmistakably a Sleeping Draught, and what looks like a Calming Draught beside it.

“Think of it,” he instructs her, touching the tip of her wand to her temple. “As much or as little as you’d like. Think only of it.”

It comes naturally. The memory of the night, the sounds and the colors, her mother’s face, the crushing pain on her legs, the sweat on Sirius’ skin sticking to her cheek. Everything she can remember—even the parts that have been locked away in the deepest part of her mind and heart, she forces herself to remember. Everything that she can think of—everything she’d dreamed of for years following that night. Darcy closes her eyes this time, and after a moment, Snape pulls his wand away from her temple. Her eyes flutter open once more. Her memory is swirling around with the hundreds of others inside of he Pensieve, and Snape dips his fingers into it, looking slightly shaken.

“When you’re ready,” he tells her.

Darcy doesn’t know if she’ll ever be ready. She looks up into Snape’s face, knowing that if she doesn’t do it now, she won’t ever do it, and with a deep breath and an extraordinary amount of courage, Darcy plunges into the contents of the Pensieve without another word. She tumbles through the darkness, closing her eyes, waiting for it to stop. It’s crushing and blind, but when Darcy feels her feet hit solid ground—surprisingly light on her feet for such a plunge into the memory—she opens her eyes and takes a deep breath, the fresh air very welcome and very soothing, but it just as soon hitches at the sight in front of her.

“My bedroom,” Darcy breathes as Snape appears beside her.

She barely has time to register the narrow bed tucked in the corner with yellow flowers on the blankets, a few stuffed animals lined up against the wall—one a stuffed dog, one that looks suspiciously like Sirius. A young woman, no older than Darcy, is bent over a bleary-eyed five-year-old with dark red hair, speaking in a soft and hurried voice. Darcy takes a few steps towards her mother, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her—would that even be possible? To feel the warmth of Lily’s skin again? To know the smooth flesh of her mother?—but getting close enough to see clearly. But she doesn’t get the chance to examine her mother’s face closely before they both hear a blast issue from downstairs, a blast that seems to shake the house, and the memory-Darcy allows her mother to scoop her into her arms.

“Where’s daddy?” Darcy asks Lily tiredly, rubbing at her eyes, and there’s a hint of panic in her tone.

“He’s coming,” Lily replies in a quiet and shaky voice, and hearing the sound of her mother’s voice hits Darcy like a train. It is music to her ears, despite the lie Lily tells her daughter. “Daddy’s coming, my love.”

Darcy follows her mother from the bedroom, walking right through the door that nearly closes in her face, just like a ghost. She can’t hear Snape’s footsteps behind her, but she doesn’t want to look over her shoulder to check he’s still there, afraid to lose sight of her mother for even the tiniest second. Despite knowing what is going to happen in the matter of minutes, Darcy can’t help but to wish she could be so effortlessly beautiful like her mother—even as a five-year-old, Darcy’s face is long and angled, lacking a healthy amount of baby fat or her mother’s rosy cheeks. Continuing to follow Lily down the hallway, their pace picking up, Darcy tries to look down the stairwell, wanting to catch sight of James, but he is nowhere to be found, and his voice cannot be heard, and Darcy’s stomach churns—is he still alive? Or has Voldemort killed him already?

The hallway is lined with framed photographs—moving and Muggle—of the family; most of them are of just James, Darcy, and a pregnant Lily, all three of them waving up at the camera or smiling. Darcy stops to really look at only one of them, a seemingly recent photograph with Darcy sitting in James’ lap, both of them giving goofy smiles to the photographer, presumably Lily. Darcy’s breath is taken away again at the stark similarities between them—they share the same smile, the same crinkles at the corners of their eyes when they laugh. Darcy glances over at her mother again, halfway through the threshold into Harry’s room.

Darcy follows quickly, the door closing behind her, her heart stopping. This is where it happens, she thinks. This is where she’s going to see Lily Potter fall to the floor in front of her, lifeless and cold. Harry is beginning to stir in his crib, fussing quietly, opening a wide, toothless mouth and smiling abruptly at the sight of both Lily and Darcy. Lily puts Darcy down inside the crib, kneeling on the opposite side of the bars and trying to shush Harry. Her face is wet, bright green eyes shining, cheeks tear-stained. There’s another loud crash from downstairs, this time followed by a _thump_! Darcy can’t breathe—she’s suffocating, but she must watch—she will not turn away now. It’s not like she doesn’t know what will happen—she’s seen it happen hundreds of times in her dreams now, and is this really so different? As Lily barricades the door with a dresser, a small table—all the furniture she can move without magic—Darcy’s heart begins to leap in her throat.

“Where’s daddy?” Darcy asks again, wrapping her tiny hands around the crib’s bars and pressing her forehead against it. “Is he coming? What’s happening?”

“Listen, sweetling,” Lily whispers urgently, moving her face closer to Darcy’s. Harry pushes himself laboriously upright, tugging gently at Darcy’s messy hair. Her voice is so soft, so quiet, that Darcy has to kneel beside her mother to hear her. It’s strange being so close, not only to Lily, but to herself, nearly fifteen years in the past. This cannot be real—this has to be a dream, but sure enough, when Darcy glances for a second behind her, Snape is there, flattened against one of the bedroom walls and looking highly uncomfortable, almost sickly. “Darcy, I love you.”

“Mummy, I want daddy,” the memory-Darcy answers, frowning and looking past her future self and towards the bedroom door, as if expecting James to walk through any moment. “Where’s daddy?”

It seems to pain Lily to answer. “Daddy isn’t coming, my love,” she breathes, pressing her forehead to Darcy’s through the bars of the crib. “Daddy isn’t coming. I love you, Darcy. I’ve always loved you and I always will. You and Harry.”

“Mummy, what’s happening? Why isn’t daddy coming?”

“Daddy and I love you so very much,” Lily continues to whisper, crying in earnest now, eyes flicking between Darcy and Harry. “You are such a good big sister to Harry, sweetheart. We love you so, so much.”

The young Darcy in the crib looks at her brother, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close. Harry doesn’t seem to mind—he nuzzles up to Darcy, cooing happily and touching her face with wet and slobbery fingers. “I love you,” Darcy whispers to her mother in a puzzled voice, holding Harry tight, fingers pressing into his soft, baby’s skin hard enough to leave bruises.

Lily smiles weakly through her tears at the sight of her children, her face still pressed against the crib. “Come here, Darcy. Come here, sweetling.”

The memory-Darcy presses her forehead against the crib again. The real, twenty-year-old Darcy tenses. She remembers this too well. When Lily kisses her daughter’s mouth, Darcy can almost feel it on her lips. Her fingers trace her lips, and when Lily kisses her daughter’s nose, Darcy touches her nose, closing her eyes. It’s warm on her forehead, as if she can feel her mother’s kiss against her skin. Another kiss—one on the mouth, one on the nose, one on the forehead.

A sudden, resounding _crash_! makes Darcy jump and she stumbles backwards towards Snape as the furniture topples over without too much effort; the door swings open with a flash of bright, white light. Darcy covers her eyes for a moment, trembling all over, too afraid to look, to afraid to watch Voldemort murder her mother, afraid that looking into Voldemort’s face will mean that he’ll kill her too.

_It’s just a memory_ , she tells herself. _He can’t hurt you. It’s just a memory._

Darcy breathes deeply again, lowering her hands from her face. Voldemort is moving smoothly, fluidly, snake-like into the bedroom, glowering at Harry in the crib. He hasn’t started to cry yet, only giggles at the robed man with his hood pulled up, as if it’s only James playing a game with him. But Darcy knows that it is not James, and she sees the terror in her memory-self as she catches sight of those terrifying red eyes, the slits that are his nostrils, the skin color that isn’t quite right, that isn’t quite human. There is murder in his eyes, and Darcy knows he is likely still coming down from the high of James’ murder (if Voldemort even cared that much).

“Stand aside,” Voldemort instructs Lily, and his voice sends a chill down Darcy’s spine. She takes a step back again, reaching blindly behind her for Snape, her fingers brushing against his sleeve. Lily does not move from the front of the crib, shielding her children with her body, the bravest woman Darcy has ever known. “Stand aside, silly girl—I need only the boy—”

“Not Harry,” Lily begs, screaming as Voldemort gets closer, his wand already held out at arms’ length. “Please, not Harry—kill me—kill me instead—”

The Darcy in the crib is crying now, holding Harry tighter to her, cowering in the corner of the crib. He seems to have realized something is wrong, and Harry crawls into his sister’s lap, holding on tightly to her shirt, little fingers scrabbling at her neck and face as if to get further away, but still he does not cry, only grunts and makes foreign sounds that aren’t even words.

“Stand aside, girl!” Voldemort repeats, his voice a low hiss. “I need only the boy!”

“Not Harry,” Lily says again, her back pressed against the crib. “Not Harry—”

“Very well,” Voldemort sneers, pointing his wand at Lily. “ _Avada Kedavra_!”

The flash of green light momentarily blinds her; for a few seconds, all she can see is green, and then she hears the sound of Lily’s body dropping to the ground, dead. Darcy forces herself to look, feeling unable to cry or mourn or grieve. All she can do is look down at her mother as Voldemort turns his wand instead on Harry, crying now in Darcy’s arms. From her corner in the crib, Darcy’s face is red and blotchy and big tears pour down her cheeks into Harry’s small amount of black hair. Voldemort leans closer, just over the side of the crib, and he looks at Darcy for a moment curiously, tilting his head to the left and right as if to get a better look at her, as if appraising her, wondering whether or not it would be worth it to kill her. And Darcy feels a queer sense of pride at the sight of her five-year-old self staring Voldemort back in the face—shaking and crying and visibly afraid, yes, but she does not look away, does not scream, only closes her eyes as Voldemort raises his wand again and points it at Harry’s heart.

“ _Avada Kedavra_!”

Another flash of green light, but this one is different—it brightens the darkest corners of the room, blinding everyone—Darcy and Snape shield their eyes—and without warning, the house shakes noticeably. Darcy stumbles again and Snape reaches out to grab her wrist just as the house begins to rumble and collapse, and the flooring falls away beneath Darcy as Voldemort’s spell backfires. There’s screaming—Darcy lets out a scream first. Despite landing awkwardly on the debris of the better half of her house, she doesn’t feel any pain or any discomfort. She lands neatly atop some of the crumbling foundation, listening to her younger self shriek throughout the cold, October night. She can hear Harry crying faintly from somewhere, but she can’t pick him out amongst the rubble. She turns quickly, looking for Snape, finding him easily enough, crawling out of the debris and looking sick.

“Are you all right?” Snape asks her quickly, reaching out for Darcy as she climbs over to him.

Darcy holds her hand out and takes Snape’s, allowing him to pull her to him. “I’m fine,” she replies hoarsely, but it’s a lie, and she’s sure Snape knows it.

“Let’s go—you’ve seen enough—”

“No,” Darcy protests, tearing her hand away from Snape’s. He lunges for her, tripping over part of the house’s wall that has half-fallen. “Sirius will be here soon—Sirius—”

Adrenaline surges through her. Adrenaline that keeps her tears at bay, that makes her heart race triple what her normal heart rate is, that makes her walk away from Snape and back towards the screaming that is coming from her five-year-old self. Snape calls after her, following her through the mess, climbing up cracked foundation and jumping over the rubble with surprising agility.

When Darcy finds herself, she looks at herself for a long time. A wooden beam from the roof of their now destroyed house lays across her legs, trapping her amidst the ruins of her home. Darcy can _feel_ the pain, the splitting pain shooting up her legs and the dull ache in her lower back that had become unbearable towards the end. She can’t help but feel incredibly pitiful towards this memory of herself—five-years-old and screaming for anyone to come help her, attempting to pry the wooden beam off her legs, squirming and reaching out and hoping that someone will come and save her, bleeding from her forehead and covered in dust. The little girl before her cries for her mother and her father, cries for Harry, for help, for someone, for anyone.

Darcy thinks she can hear something else in the distance—a rumbling—the growl of a motorcycle engine coming from the distance. There’s a flash of a headlight coming nearer, lightening the scene for a moment. Someone  _does_ come for her, in the form of Sirius Black, the same age as Darcy now, running white-faced and sweaty through the rubble, searching for she and Harry. He looks so young that it shocks her, despite the pictures she’s seen of him as a boy and a young man.

The explosion of the backfiring spell has made a much bigger mess than Darcy had anticipated, some debris strewn into the street, broken furniture and picture frames and stuffed animals and clothes all scattered about. With a thick layer of dust covering just about everything, Darcy can see how difficult it is to pick her out without knowing she’s there amongst the broken, stone foundations. 

“Oh, Darcy—honey—come here—” Sirius’ voice is raspy, and his breath comes in short gasps. He walks right through her towards the little girl stuck in the debris. Sirius doesn’t use his wand to move the beam, instead grabbing on tight to it and pulling with a grunt, pulling Darcy free. Immediately, she reaches out for him, a familiar face, and Sirius grabs her quickly, holding her to his chest. “You’re okay now, I’ve got you. Where’s Harry? Sweetheart—quickly, let’s find Harry.”

Sirius takes a moment to survey the destruction. He’s panting, his eyes wide and not yet hardened by Azkaban. Darcy watches him closely, trying to touch him, but her hand falls through him and Sirius doesn’t see or feel her in the slightest. Her memory-self is still clinging onto him tightly, crying into his chest. Sirius quickens his pace.

“Don’t look, darling,” Sirius urges the little girl in his arms, one hand cradling the back of her head. Blood pools on the ground from an unknown source, and Sirius steps over it. “Close your eyes—don’t look—”

But Darcy either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t listen. Her eyes are still open, but it’s clear she isn’t seeing much through her tears.

“Shit— _shit_ , where’s Harry?” Sirius breathes heavily, looking around, trying to listen for the sound of a baby crying. He shushes Darcy, pressing kisses to her head. “It’s all right, Darcy, it’s all right—I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“Black! That you?”

Darcy recognizes that voice at once. She turns away from Sirius to see the large and shaggy silhouette of Hagrid, carrying a silent bundle in his arms. Sirius moves carefully among the ruins, closer to Hagrid, sweating profusely and shaking and cradling Darcy against him still. “Hagrid,” he rasps. “Hagrid, oh, _Merlin_ —I’ve got her—is he—?”

“He’s sleepin’,” Hagrid answers, smiling nervously down at the baby in his arms. Sirius looks relieved, but at the same time, very anxious. “Here, I can take her—”

“ _No_ ,” Sirius answers, outraged and bewildered and incredulous. “No, Hagrid. Give Harry to me—I’m their godfather. Give him here.”

“Can’t,” Hagrid says matter-of-factly. The memory-Darcy has stopped crying, sniffling now, lifting her head to look shyly at Hagrid for a few seconds and then at the baby in his arms, and then she buries her face back into Sirius’ slick neck again. “Dumbledore’s orders. C’mere, Darcy—I’m goin’ to take yeh and yer brother to yer aunt and uncle’s—”

Hagrid reaches out for Darcy, but Sirius moves quickly, both of her arms wrapping around her and nearly falling backwards as he tries to keep Darcy away from Hagrid. “No,” Sirius says again, firmer this time. “No, she’s coming with me, and so is Harry. Give him to me, Hagrid.”

“Dumbledore’s orders,” Hagrid repeats, frowning slightly. “I’ve gotta take ‘em. I’m sorry. I’ll let yeh say goodbye.”

“Hagrid—”

“I can’t give Harry to yeh,” Hagrid says once more, showing no sign of giving in. “But I can let yeh say goodbye to Darcy.”

Sirius licks his lips, looking down into Darcy’s face with the most pathetic and apologetic look she’s ever seen anyone give her. Taking a step closer to Sirius and her younger self, she _needs_ to listen—words that she hasn’t dreamed of in years, a goodbye she hasn’t dreamed of in so long. Sirius hugs her tightly to him, closing his eyes and kissing her face, crying against her hair.

“It’ll be okay,” he whispers to her as she begins to cry again. “You have to be with Harry—you have to—Darcy—”

“I want to stay with you,” she cries against him, her arms tight around his neck. “I don’t want to go—I hate them—I hate Petunia—I want daddy—”

“It’s going to be all right,” Sirius says, smoothing her hair back out of her wet face. “I’ll come back for you—”

“ _No_ —!”

Hagrid reaches out, able to grab Darcy securely with a single hand. She only holds onto Sirius tighter, her arms around his neck and her legs hooked around his waist as Hagrid attempts to pry her off him.

“Darcy, you have to let go now,” Sirius croaks, grabbing at her wrists to pull her off. “It’s all right—”

“No, no, _no_!”

“C’mon, Darcy, we have to get yeh out of here,” Hagrid urges, giving Darcy a gentle pull again. “Darcy, let go of him—”

“Sirius, no—!” She clutches onto his shirt, her legs still wrapped around her waist. “No! Let go! Let go! _Sirius_!”

Sirius watches on, stony-faced, as Hagrid tears Darcy away from him. His jaw is clenched tight, his gray eyes watery and shining in the moonlight. “I love you, Darcy—I’ll come back—it won’t be for long, I promise—”

Hagrid pulls Darcy to his chest as she continues to scream for Sirius. “Yeh did the right thing,” he assures Sirius, but her godfather does not look convinced in the slightest. “Dumbledore’ll be happy yeh came round.”

Sirius looks around, sighing heavily. “Take the bike, Hagrid,” he says, and Darcy is surprised anyone can hear him over all of her screaming. “I won’t need it anymore.”

Darcy jumps as Snape grabs hold of her hand firmly. She had completely forgotten he was here, that he had just seen everything she had, and at the feel of his hand, Darcy is so ready to return to the present that when he pulls her back out of the memory, she pulls harder—or tries to—through the pressing darkness. The force of it throws her backwards as she finds herself back in Snape’s office, still holding tight to Snape’s hand. He tumbles to the ground with her, and for a split second—the tiniest second she’s ever known—Darcy thinks that she will be all right.

Once that second of false hope is over, Darcy pulls her hand away from Snape, turns away from him on her hands and knees, and vomits violently onto the floor—not just once, but twice, three times, four times, until there’s nothing but bile on the ground below her. Tears drip onto the pile of sick, tears she hadn’t realized she’d been crying. Darcy hesitates, staying very still as she processes everything, her arms and legs shaking so badly that it takes everything in her not to collapse into her own vomit.

“I’m sorry,” Darcy says in a voice very unlike her own, throat burning from vomiting, closing her eyes to avoid looking at the floor.

“It’s—it’s all right, I—” It doesn’t seem Snape is able to form a complete sentence. Instead, she feels a hand upon her shoulder, and Snape gently pulls her away from her vomit, pulling her into him.

Darcy cries loudly as soon as she collapses on the ground beside him. She keeps her eyes closed, not wanting to see the Pensieve, or any evidence that they’ve just done what they’ve just done. Snape sits slumped against his desk, pulling Darcy closer, a gesture she never thought she would witness or even live, but Darcy doesn’t care—she doesn’t care that it’s Snape, she doesn’t care about anything except the quickened beating of his heart against her cheek, his cheek atop her head, one arm holding her to him.

“Perhaps that’s…enough for one night,” Snape breathes, his voice sounding slightly strangled.

Darcy silently agrees, unable to speak through the sobs that rack her body. She adjusts herself, inching slightly closer to Snape and away from the pile of sick behind her, clutching the front of his shirt with her long fingers, holding on tight, needing to feel something solid and sturdy beneath her, needing the reassurance that comes with the comfort of being held.

Snape doesn’t speak to her, doesn’t murmur words of comfort or praise or love—not that she had really expected him to. But he does comb his fingers through her hair once, as if to see what it would feel like, and he does hold onto her with a grip that makes it plain she is not going anywhere.

Finally, Darcy opens her eyes. The Pensieve glimmers prettily upon the ceiling, calling out to Darcy, but she’s had enough for tonight—enough for a few weeks—maybe enough for forever. The arm that is thrown around her eases her trembling, but they’re both still breathing heavily, as if having just run around the entire castle. There are hundreds of things she wants to say, but she can’t speak—she feels tongue-tied, nauseous again, slightly disgusted with what she’s just witnessed. There’s something about seeing the memory that way instead of through her own eyes that is overwhelming, the fact that she remembers everything even if she denies it. The way her mother had tried to reassure her, the way Hagrid had taken her away from Sirius with no thought as to what she might want.

Stomach still rolling, Darcy takes a few deep breaths to steady herself and is surprised at the thought that worms its way into her brain after all she has just seen and shared with Snape: what she wouldn’t give to have Lupin here— _his_ chest beneath her cheek, _his_ arms around her, lips against her forehead and whispering sweet nothings into her ear—instead. 


	42. Chapter 42

The Sleeping Draught Snape prepared had worked for a night—just the one night, the night she and Snape had ventured into the Pensieve like it was some exciting adventure, and afterwards she had been too afraid to sleep, too afraid to dream, too afraid of being forced to relive what she had already lived in the Pensieve. The potion worked wonders, just as it always has and just like she knew it would, and she had slept so well that night that Snape seemed more than wary of her during classes the next day when she showed up seemingly all right.

Part of her is sorry that she allowed herself to be put in such a situation with Snape. Ever since she’d allowed him to hold her after seeing the memory, Darcy feels slightly uncomfortable being alone in a room with him. Not that he’s said anything or really done anything (in fact, he does not bring up the incident once, or even seem to acknowledge the fact it happened at all), but Darcy feels that sometimes he holds her gaze a little too long, the hand on the small of her back lingers a few seconds longer than it usually does, sometimes his knee touches hers very briefly beneath the staff table during meals, and once—just the once—as Darcy had been packing up after class to head to dinner, she had looked up to find Snape very close to her, his black eyes roving her face, looking awfully conflicted, and for a moment she had thought he was going to kiss her. She had jumped back perhaps a little too quickly, for Snape did not fail to notice the complete lack of hesitation in moving away from him. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to explain this to Snape—that Darcy just doesn’t care for him in that way—because she can’t think of a way to say it without sounding incredibly insulting.

Snape is not and, as far as she can remember, has _never_ been a good looking man, nor is he a terribly kind man. Not that Darcy’s shallow, of course—she doesn’t want to think that she couldn’t possibly love someone who maybe isn’t conventionally attractive, but when she really thinks about it, Darcy always comes to the same  
conclusion. She could _never_ love Snape in that way, not because of any superficial reasons, but because of what he’s done and who he is and what is branded upon his forearm and what he’s said to and about people she cares the most about. It’s clear that Snape does not respect her friends the way that Lupin does—Darcy imagines Snape would much rather throw himself into the lake and drown instead of spending any amount of quality time with Harry or Gemma or Sirius or Hermione or Ron.

And yet, despite this and despite the small, awkward moments between them, Darcy continues to find comfort in him. The unspoken words hang between them, the events of that night—the memory and everything that had happened afterwards—the knowledge that there is this big secret between them that no one else will ever know about, is much more intimate than she thought it would be. To know that Snape is now aware, and has even watched, her worst memory now makes Darcy feel naked everytime he sees her. Feeling naked is fine though, being vulnerable is fine, because at least now Snape has seen, now understands what has happened to make her the way she is, now understands her need for the drink and the need for comfort, understands the nightmares that have plagued her for years, and he is kinder to her than he’s ever been before, which is a breath of fresh air.

It had been a mess, getting Darcy out of his office that night. Truly, she admires Snape for not snapping at her once and handling the situation with grace, for lack of a better word. She had cried against him for a long time, vomited some more, cried for a little while longer, until all of her tears had been cried and her throat was on fire and she could barely see through her puffy eyes. When Snape had helped her to her feet, Darcy had found her legs were weak and shaky, and Snape had even joked with her, telling her, “You’re a little old to be carried.” She hadn’t laughed at the time, but wrapped her hands around his bicep and let him lead her back to her room. To be fair, Snape had just left her standing in her bedroom without a proper goodnight, and she thinks a decent friend would have leave stayed a few minutes to help run her a bath, or get her a drink, or get her settled on the sofa or in bed. Snape had done none of those things, but maybe that’s asking too much of him. After all, she hadn’t asked after him, either. She hadn’t made sure he was all right, so why should she have expected him to do the same for her?

_He knew I’d need help sleeping_ , Darcy had told herself while drinking the Sleeping Draught Snape had fixed her. _Maybe this is his way of making sure I’m all right._

But Sleeping Draughts get old, and cannot fix the throbbing headache she gets whenever someone enters her room without warning, the agitation whenever Hermione talks her ear off, the hurt when Harry keeps things from her, the irritation that Ron causes by going on and on about Quidditch. She doesn’t care—it’s as simple as that. She doesn’t care what Hermione has to say about Rita Skeeter or The Quibbler or S.P.E.W., or even the fact that Lupin still hasn’t returned home even though he’s been gone for five weeks now (Darcy had been so _sure_ last weekend was going to be the one) and it kills her, physically pains her to imagine he’s hurt, or worse—dead. The last time Hermione had decided to bring up Lupin with an optimistic tone of voice, Darcy had shouted at her, had told her to shut up about him. Hermione had been startled and embarrassed and her entire face had turned bright red as she apologized and sped away. She doesn’t even care about Cho Chang or what happened at Quidditch practice with Katie Bell or that Trelawney is going crazy. No one seems to care that she’s fighting her own private battles, so why should she care about theirs? Everyone has always sought her out for comfort—Hermione, mostly, these days—and yet, where is everyone when she is hurting? Where are their forced smiles and soft laughter when she needs it?

So she turns to something a little more familiar and a little more comforting—alcohol. It puts her to sleep at night, not giving her dreamless sleep completely, but sleep that allows her to remember very slightly. Darcy wants to remember Hagrid forcing her away from Sirius. Seeing it from a different perspective had made it worse, somehow. How could Dumbledore have made Hagrid do that? Maybe Dumbledore didn’t realize Darcy would have been prepared to go with Sirius. Maybe he didn’t realize Hagrid would have to pry her from her godfather’s chest. Or maybe (and Darcy has a feeling that the alcohol bolsters this thought, even though it makes her stomach churn), Dumbledore never cared about Darcy, never cared where she was or who she was with or if she was happy or loved, as long as she was with Harry.

And Darcy is left with a hole in her heart that can be filled only by answers at this point. But she doesn’t know what questions she wants answered. There’s only one she can think of, and that question is _why_? She wonders if Sirius lies awake at night sometimes, remembering Hagrid pulling his goddaughter away from him forcibly, remembering watching Hagrid fly away on his own motorbike with the children that should have been his from then on.

So when she finds herself in seated across from Dumbledore in his own office a week after the Pensieve incident, stinking of scotch, her eyes bloodshot, her heart heavy with grief, her hands folded in her lap, she thinks that she might get the closure that she thought the Pensieve would give her. But it’s hard to explain to Dumbledore why she’s so upset without giving everything away, and it’s harder to explain with the Pensieve visible out of the corner of her eye. She refuses to meet Dumbledore’s piercing gaze, afraid he’ll try to read her mind, even if he’s so against Snape doing so.

Darcy very forcibly remembers being in his office only last year, the night Harry’s name had been spit from the Goblet of Fire. Darcy had chastised him, her uncontrolled anger spilling out of her as she spoke to Dumbledore as someone beneath her, as the portraits on the walls had scoffed and protested her treatment of the Headmaster under their breaths. She had ignored them all, focused only on the fact that Harry was being forced to enter into the Triwizard Tournament. But she doesn’t feel that anger this time—or, she does, but now, she’s able to keep it from boiling over. In fact, the anger eats at her, but Darcy will not shout this time, will not complain like a little girl, will not accuse Dumbledore of not caring, even though she wants to.

“Is there something you would like to say, Darcy?” Dumbledore asks finally, after a heavy, five minute silence. “It was, after all, your request that we meet, was it not? Or has Professor Snape lied to me?”

“No—no, sir, he didn’t lie.” Darcy clears her throat, sitting up straighter in her chair.

Dumbledore clearly expects her to elaborate, but she doesn’t say anything more. He exhales through his long nose, rests his elbows upon his desktop, and steeples his fingers together. “Have you been kind to Professor Snape?” he asks, and Darcy furrows her brow at the question.

“You don’t have to ask that anymore, Professor,” she replies sheepishly, blushing.

“I’m glad to hear it. Has he been kind to you?”

“Yes,” Darcy says. There’s another awkward silence, and then the words tumble out of her before she can stop herself. “Where is Remus? Is he all right? When is he coming home?”

Dumbledore smiles weakly. “I have not heard anything to suggest he is not perfectly all right. Remus is due home any day now.” He seems amused that she would ask about Lupin first, and it annoys her. “Surely you haven’t asked to meet me just to check on Remus’ well-being?”

“It’s been nearly six weeks, Professor,” Darcy counters, a little more harshly than she would have liked. “He told me he’d only be gone for a few weeks.”

“I’m sure he did not mean to purposefully mislead you,” Dumbledore answers with a slight nod. “And I’m certain he would not want you to worry.”

Darcy looks away, blushing harder. “I always worry about him, sir.” The last thing she really wants to do is have an entire conversation about Lupin’s extended absence, but Darcy wonders if there is some way to use this to her advantage, to make Dumbledore more prone to giving her the truthful answers she seeks. “Professor Dumbledore, I just want you know that I’m sorry about what we—what _I_ did—during seventh year. It was stupid and foolish and I should have thought more about the consequences, and how it might affect you and Remus.”

“Your apology is very greatly appreciated, Darcy, and—of course—accepted.” There’s a twinkle in Dumbledore’s eye when Darcy looks back up at him. “Seventh year was some time ago now, and whatever you and Remus have decided to pursue now is none of my business.”

“Oh,” Darcy stammers, feeling warm around the collar. “We’re not—I mean—we’re not—we’re just friends, sir.”

“Of course.” There’s a knowing look in his eyes now that makes Darcy uneasy, but she doesn’t let it show. “Why have you come here, Darcy? I do not want to rush you, but if you have nothing else to discuss…?”

“Actually, I do, sir. I’m sorry. I’m nervous.” Darcy laughs weakly, wiping her sweaty palms on her pants. She doesn’t want her temper to rise with the start of her questions, but she almost thinks it inevitable. “Could I be blunt, Professor? I don’t really know how to say it in, er—a very polite way.”

Dumbledore raises his eyebrows, giving a small shrug despite the indignant noises coming from the portraits. “If you find it’s easier to ask a question bluntly, I would prefer you do so. However, I would ask one thing before you begin. Is this a conversation that we should have here, or do you think a more private setting would be better?”

Darcy hesitates for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip. “A private setting, please.”

Dumbledore nods. “I know you do not like waiting, but why don’t we meet Saturday? I will come to you, and I promise you, I will not chastise you if you would like to wear your pajamas.”

She continues to chew her lip, wondering if Hermione would be angry with her for skipping their meeting at the Three Broomsticks on Saturday. But then she tells herself, what does it matter? Darcy can just give Hermione the finished article to give to Rita Skeeter. Hermione would stand up for her, wouldn’t she? She’d make sure Rita didn’t change anything in the article? Part of her is afraid to look Dumbledore in the eyes again.

“Has Professor Snape been using Legilimency on you again, Darcy?”

“No,” she replies quickly. “Don’t read my mind, Professor.”

“I wouldn’t,” Dumbledore says, and he sounds so genuine about it, Darcy lifts her eyes almost immediately. “I would not betray your trust in such a way. But I do find it polite to look in one’s eyes while having a conversation.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“You’ve been drinking, Darcy,” he says again. It is not a question, but a gentle accusation. “I would ask that you not attend classes if you’re going to be in such a state. But I am curious as to what is bothering you so much that you feel drinking is a crutch.”

“It helps me sleep,” Darcy answers, humiliated. “And I don’t show up to class drunk, sir. Professor Snape is lying.”

Dumbledore thankfully decides to ignore her rude outburst, stroking his long, silver beard. “I understand. We will talk more about this on Saturday. But I would like to leave you with some good news, at least.”

“Oh?”

He smiles, getting to his feet. “It seems we were able to revoke your probationary status for the time being.” Dumbledore helps Darcy to her feet, walking her to the door. “But the credit belongs to Professor Snape, who graciously gave Professor Umbridge your first years’ exam and homework results, also giving you a glowing review, I’m told. I don’t think even Professor Umbridge could deny you are a consistent and enthusiastic teacher, not to mention an assistant for Professor Snape and not a proper professor (not that I mean anything by it, of course) under my thumb. But tread carefully still, Darcy. I’m afraid the ice is running thinner with each passing day.”

“Professor Snape said that, as long as I do what I’m told, then he’ll make sure I stay here at Hogwarts with him.”

“I think he meant it. And I think you are doing an excellent job.”

Darcy gives him a small, embarrassed smile.

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re not coming!” Hermione gives Darcy’s arm a sharp whack! with her Arithmancy book. “Why would you tell me the day before the Hogsmeade visit?”

“I told you,” Darcy scowls, rubbing her arm where the heavy book had struck her. “I’ll give you the article, and I don’t want anything changed. I spent all night perfecting it, so you will have the only final draft. Be careful with it.”

“She isn’t going to be happy when she finds out you’ve ditched her,” Hermione answers in a low voice. “Part of the reason she even agreed to meet was because I said you’d be there.”

“Oh?” Darcy snaps, scrunching her nose and quickening her pace down the corridor. “And what have you been telling her? Going to exploit me for a little more reach within the world of journalism? You could sell the story of a poor, unloved little girl and a werewolf if you really wanted to, couldn’t you?”

“You know I would never do that to either of you,” Hermione replies coolly. “I already told her you weren’t interested in giving a story about your personal life, nor were you at all interested in talking about Lupin. And I’d appreciate it if both you and Harry stopped taking your tempers out on me and Ron.”

Darcy adjusts the bag on her shoulder, the bag much lighter now that she isn’t bringing her photo albums back and forth. “I’m sorry, Hermione,” she mutters. “I’m going through a lot right now, and—well, I suppose I’ve yet to find a healthy outlet.”

“I know you are,” Hermione says sympathetically, starting down the marble staircase at Darcy’s side. “It’s hard for all of us right now.”

Darcy sighs heavily, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I’m sorry I won’t be there tomorrow, but I have a really important meeting with Professor Dumbledore sometime tomorrow. He’s coming to meet with me.”

“Dumbledore is? But why?” Hermione looks up at Darcy with a very anxious expression.

“It’s nothing,” Darcy lies quickly. “I just wanted a word with him about some things, and we thought a private setting would suit the conversation better.”

Darcy gives Hermione a sideways look; Hermione’s eyes are narrowed in suspicion. “Why are you talking so fast?”

“I’m not talking fast.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are, and you’re _so_ lying,” Hermione hisses, looking rather affronted. “Why are you skipping tomorrow? You just want to see if Lupin’s come home, is that it?”

“First of all,” Darcy snaps, lowering her voice as Hermione glowers at her and they make their way into the dungeons, where their voices echo dangerously. “Even if that was the only reason I’m not coming tomorrow, I can’t believe you actually think I’d rather meet with Rita Skeeter than see Remus for the first time in weeks—”

“Well, I thought this was important to you—”

“It _is_ important to me, Hermione,” Darcy continues, stopping outside of Snape’s office door, crossing her arms over her chest. “But seeing Remus safe and well at home is far more important to me than any stupid article. And besides, I have important business to discuss with Professor Dumbledore that really cannot wait.”

Hermione purses her lips, exhaling through her nose. “Darcy, I think you’ve got your priorities all wrong—”

“Hark who’s talking,” Darcy says. “Like you have any idea what order my priorities are in, or what my priorities are in the first place.” She knocks quickly on Snape’s door. “I’m ready!”

“In a minute,” comes Snape’s voice, and she hears him bustling around inside.

“All right, listen,” Darcy whispers to Hermione urgently. “Go into my bedroom, top dresser drawer, underneath my underwear. The article is there.”

“You put it in your underwear drawer?” Hermione asks, frowning slightly, looking exasperated.

“No one would think to look there.” She raises her eyebrows and shrugs as the door to Snape’s office opens suddenly.

Snape hovers in the threshold, his eyes flicking from Darcy to Hermione. “Granger,” he says, clearly not having expected Darcy to be with anyone. Hermione quails beneath his hard look, looking hopefully to Darcy. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s my shift for patrolling the corridors, sir,” Hermione says meekly, holding her hands behind her back and taking a step away from him. “I’ll just be going now.”

“See to it that you hurry, Miss Granger.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Take your time, Hermione, and don’t mind Professor Snape,” Darcy cuts in, giving Snape a significant look before smiling at Hermione. Hermione looks over her shoulder to smile back as Darcy hooks her arm around Snape’s and they begin their journey to Hogsmeade. “You take pleasure in ordering students around, don’t you?”

“I take pleasure in students not wandering the corridors about at night,” Snape replies stiffly. He at least waits until they step out of Hogwarts to ask, “How was your meeting with the Headmaster?”

“We really didn’t do much talking,” Darcy shrugs, pulling her scarf up over her chin. She glances quickly at Snape’s hands, pleased to see him wearing gloves. “He’s going to come see me on Saturday to talk more.” She looks up at Snape curiously. “Does he ever check in with you about me? Just to see how I’m doing?”

“Sometimes,” Snape confesses, and he does so rather quickly, so quickly it surprises her. “More so last year than this year. Why?”

“It’s just…” Darcy sighs. “He always asks me if we’ve been kind to each other. Everytime, I always know he’s going to ask before he even does. Does he ask you that?”

“No,” he says slowly, suspiciously. “What have you been telling him?”

“Nothing!” Darcy scoffs, flipping her hair behind her shoulder. “I don’t tell him anything private. I wouldn’t. The last few times he’s asked, I’ve said yes. I think I’ve been kind to you.” She furrows her brow, looking up at him again, the wind blowing his lank, black hair around. “And you’ve been kind to me.”

“Have I?” His tone is casual, bored almost, but she notices Snape give her a sideways look in the light of the moon. She looks up at the sky—the full moon has begun to wane, having hung bright in the sky last night as a cruel reminder of Lupin. It had kept her awake for hours. “Darcy?”

“What?”

“I’m talking to you. Listen when I’m talking to you.” Snape follows her line of sight, his eyes resting on the moon for a moment, and then he looks away, scowling. “I see. You think you’ll return to Grimmauld Place to find him waiting for you, do you? So you can return to whatever toxic thing you call a relationship?”

Darcy feels a surge of anger and releases his arm immediately. “Excuse me? You don’t know anything about what happens between us. What does it matter to you, anyway?”

“Why do you let him walk all over you?” Snape asks, and Darcy opens her mouth at once to argue, but his question throws her off so much that she finds herself unable to come up with an answer. He sounds like a _child_ , desperate for an answer in the hopes that it will be one that pleases him. Snape looks Darcy full in her incredulous face.

“Remus does not walk all over me,” Darcy counters hesitantly, still shaken for some reason over his question. “He—he loves me.”

“He doesn’t deserve you.”

Darcy stops walking abruptly. Snape takes a few steps without her, stumbling when he looks over again to see she’s stopped. His cheeks flood with color, something that makes Darcy slightly wary. She inhales, pauses, takes a step towards Snape, keeping her voice level. “And you think you do?”

She remembers asking this before, in the warm and loud common room of the Three Broomsticks, after Ludo Bagman had pushed she and Snape together to dance. But then, her retort hadn’t had the same power it does now. Snape had been angry then—now, he looks defeated, almost ashamed. It’s pitiful to see him look so pathetic standing before her, like he hadn’t spent seven years being unkind to Darcy and everyone she loved, like he thinks her scorn at the idea is uncalled for.

Darcy hates herself for crying. She wipes angrily at her cheeks with her sleeves before adjusting the bag on her shoulder again. “Remus isn’t the one who has the Dark Mark branded on his arm,” she hisses, making a grab for his left arm. Snape moves it out of her reach quickly and instinctively. “You think I’ve forgotten what you are.”

“What I used to be—”

“Not according to Voldemort.”

“You think it makes you brave, saying the name?” Snape sneers.

“Remus and Sirius say his name,” Darcy says. “They’re not afraid.”

“Because they’re fools, and they always have been.” Snape grinds his teeth for a moment, anger flashing in his black eyes. “As long as it keeps you worshipping the both of them, they’d do anything, wouldn’t they? If you had known them in school, you wouldn’t be so quick to—”

“They’re both far better men than you are,” Darcy snarls.

“Don’t interrupt me.” He grabs onto her arm tightly, his fingertips digging into her forearm. Darcy tries to pull away from him, but Snape doesn’t let go of her. “You want to know what your precious werewolf was like in school? You want to know what your arrogant—” Snape grunts as Darcy elbows him hard in the stomach and slips out of his grasp.

“Why do you have to ruin everything?” Darcy asks, breathing very hard. “You were so concerned about Remus turning me against you last year, but you waste no time now in continually telling me lies about he and Sirius and my father—”

“You think I’m lying? Your father and your felon godfather made it their life’s mission to make my life miserable for no reason other than for fun.” Snape looks furious, his face contorted with rage and drained of what little color he had flooded with upon confessing to Darcy just minutes ago. “Both Lupin and Black would have killed me—”

“But my father saved your life, and Remus has nothing to do with it,” Darcy growls, continuing her walk down the path to the Hogwarts gates. The nearly frozen grass crunches beneath her feet with each step, and Snape follows her quickly. “They made a fool of you at school, and you will never get over that, will you?”

“Listen to me, Darcy.” Snape grabs her arm again, stopping her in her tracks and pulling her to him, turning her around to face him. They’re nearly of a same height, Snape slightly taller, so that he still looks down at her. Darcy straightens herself, trying to become taller, more intimidating. “Again, you prove that you have the arrogance of your father, the ignorance and foolishness.” He grabs hold of her chin firmly between his thumb and index finger, moving her face left and right to examine her closely. As if in disgust, his hand drops suddenly to his side, his hook nose scrunched. “You even look like him. Don’t you dare talk about things you don’t understand. Don’t you dare act like you were there, like you know what happened, like you know who your filthy father and his friends really were.”

“They weren’t Death Eaters in training, I’m sure,” Darcy says, rubbing her chin. “When did you get the Mark, anyway? The moment you set foot outside of Hogwarts?”

Snape flushes again. “You go too far, Darcy. You really are an insufferable, insolent girl, aren’t you?”

“Stop it.” Darcy sighs heavily, feeling more sad then angry. His words hurt her, the venom with which he spits them at her is painful, but Darcy holds herself tall still, not wanting to show him any weakness. “Why do you continue to insult me? Does it please you to hurt me?”

Snape softens, as if he’s only now just realized what he’s said to her. “No,” he answers. “No, I—”

“You what?” Darcy demands, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I—” Snape struggles painfully, pathetically, for something to say. Darcy waits, her eyebrows raised as he runs a hand down his face, frustrated, his jaw clenched.

“ _What_?”

Snape inhales deeply, as if steeling himself to do something insane. He raises his hands, balled into fists, and extends his warm, gloved fingers in front of her face. And after a few awkward seconds of watching him curl and uncurl his fingers in the air, Snape touches her face, the fabric of the gloves soft against her cheeks. He smooths her hair down when the cold, February wind begins to take it, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones, her cheekbones so like her father’s. Darcy’s heart leaps in her throat as she stands frozen in place, her entire body tensing.

_I don’t want this_ , she thinks, as they look at each other for what seems like the longest minute Darcy’s ever known. _I don’t want this, but I brought this on myself._

“I saved your life,” he breathes, a throaty and strangled and desperate whisper. “Twice.”

“And I’ve told you that I am grateful,” Darcy replies softly, glad they’re far enough away from the castle to avoid being seen. “Professor Snape—”

His hands fall from her face to her shoulders. His hand tightens around her left shoulder, where he knows the scars are. Their faces are so close, and even in the darkness, Darcy can see him clearly thanks to the moonlight. It casts a white light upon his thin face, making him look paler than ever. She touches Snape’s hands, still upon her shoulders, lowering them and releasing them, not wanting to hold on for too long.

“I can’t,” she rasps, looking away from him. “Please don’t, Professor.”

“He doesn’t want you,” Snape says.

“He’s not the reason I can’t.” Darcy can’t pretend his words don’t sting her. Her heart aches painfully. “Can you please just take me home?”

Snape quickly regains his usual demeanor, straightening up and nodding quickly. This time, as they walk the rest of the way, Darcy does not hold onto his arm. When they reach the gates, Snape holds out a hand for her to take, which she does after a moment of hesitation. Within seconds, she and Snape land on the front step of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Snape allows them entry, closing the door behind him, opening his mouth to say something, but voices float down the hallway, issuing from the open doors of the drawing room, voices that make Darcy’s heart beat impossibly fast.

“Damn it, that’s probably her—I told you to hurry up.”

“You didn’t really give me any notice you’d be here,” comes Gemma’s voice. “I’m working as fast as I can.”

“Work _faster_.”

“I told you we should have just hidden away in your bedroom until—”

Darcy takes a step towards the drawing room, panting.

“And I told you, I didn’t want her to think that we were sleeping together or—”

“She wouldn’t have thought we were sleeping together. She would have thought we were scheming.” Gemma chuckles darkly. The doors to the drawing room are open just barely. “Which is exactly what we’re doing.”

“Just get this big one here, at least— _ah_!”

“You big baby.”

Someone shuffles heavily towards the drawing room doors, and before Darcy can peer inside, Sirius slips through the door and closes it with a snap. He looks past Darcy to Snape, still standing by the doorway, and without another word to her, Snape lets himself out. “Evening, Darcy,” Sirius grins, revealing all of his perfectly straight teeth. “Hungry?”

“Is that Remus in there?” Darcy asks quickly, distractedly, trying to push past Sirius, but he catches her arm and stops her. “Let me in—I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

Sirius frowns, blocking the doorway with his body. “Sweetheart, listen—he’s resting—”

“No, he’s not,” Darcy scoffs. “I just heard him arguing with Gemma. Let me through.”

With a resigned sigh, Sirius opens the door of the drawing room and Darcy tumbles over the threshold, stopping at the sight of him, her breath hitching. Gemma’s smiling weakly at her from the floor beside the sofa, things from her ingredients kit spread all around her.

Lupin is on the sofa, his shirt off, a long and angry wound running vertically down the right side of his chest. It’s not the only one either—his body is littered with cuts and fresh scars. Even his neck, where two cuts are still open, the blood smeared about his throat. He isn’t smiling, but something in his expression softens at the sight of Darcy. He looks terrible—looking, not just ill, but as if he’s dying right before her eyes, right on the sofa.

“You’re hurt,” she says, but the words are caught in her throat and are hardly audible. Darcy races to Gemma’s side, kneeling beside her. Unable to throw her arms around his neck, Darcy takes his hand and squeezes it for a moment before letting it slide from her grip. “When did you get back? What happened? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I only just got back an hour ago,” he croaks. “It’s lucky Gemma was here. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You’ve been like this all day?” Darcy asks incredulously, her eyes scanning his torso again. “You could have bled out. You could have died—are you _trying_ to kill me?”

Gemma chuckles again. “He’s had a Blood-Replenishing Potion.” She gestures to all of her things. “If he doesn’t object, I can show you what to do and leave you to talk.”

Lupin nods, and Darcy’s heart soars. Gemma immediately sets to work, showing Darcy how to properly clean the wounds, which ingredients to mix together, how to apply them, how to properly bandage the larger ones since Darcy’s confidence in her own healing magic is shaky at best (though Gemma exchanges a knowing look with Lupin at this, and Darcy hopes she means to properly heal the wounds afterwards).

“Think you can handle it?” Gemma asks with a small smile, pressing a damp cloth into Darcy’s hands. When Darcy nods weakly, she adds, getting to her feet, “Of course you can, my Potions Master-in-training. Come on, Sirius, let’s leave them.”

Darcy holds the cloth awkwardly in her hands as she and Lupin share a sad look. When the drawing room door opens and closes once again, she presses the cloth to his neck, wiping the blood from his skin and cleaning the cuts there. Her hands shake as she does so, trying to ignore the way he watches her closely. “Who did this to you?”

“I did.”

She pauses, looking into his face. There are dark shadows under his eyes reminiscent of bruises, a lack of color in his normally flushed and healthy looking face, a thin layer of sweat shimmers on his face in the firelight. He is beyond exhausted, it seems, and hurting very badly. Dipping the cloth in the milky potion Gemma had indicated, she presses it again to the cuts on his neck and a relieved sigh escapes his lips. “You were with the werewolves,” she whispers, focusing on her hands, and not the way his eyes follow her face. “Weren’t you?”

He nods very slowly.

“Why didn’t you use your potions?”

Lupin shifts uncomfortably. “I couldn’t. Not around them.”

Darcy begins to clean the blood off his chest, the open wounds that look her in the face. “So you subjected yourself to this?” she asks gently, apologizing when Lupin grabs her wrist after she presses a little too hard. “What if you had bled out on your way here? What if you’d splinched yourself?”

“I thought I was going to.” He holds up his left hand, where Darcy can see a thin layer of skin is missing from the top of his ring finger. “Could have been a finger. Anyway, Dumbledore had given me orders—”

“And what do you think he’d say if he saw the state you were in? If you knew you could have died?”

“He’d say that sacrifices must be made during war,” Lupin says. “And I agree with him. There are things worth dying for, Darcy, especially now.”

“Your life is not Dumbledore’s to throw away, like you’re dispensable.” Darcy wipes her eyes with her shoulders before the tears can fall. She finishes with the wounds on his chest, and Lupin rolls over to allow her easier access to his marred back. When he moves, Darcy has to resist the urge to place her palm upon his muscles, wanting nothing more than to feel his body beneath her hands. She settles with just continuing to care for him, knowing it’s what he needs. “What are they like? The other werewolves?”

“They’re in hiding,” Lupin replies, his voice muffled with his face against the arm of the sofa. Darcy watches goosebumps rise on his skin when she places her fingertips on the curve of his spine, smiling weakly as she soaks the cloth again. “This was a small community, very far from the nearest town, very removed. They’ve heard rumors of a larger community being assembled underground. Fenrir Greyback’s idea, and unfortunately, many of them are taken with the idea of joining Voldemort. They were…far more accepting of their lycanthropy than I’d expected.”

“How so?” she asks, finishing the final wound and helping him sit up with many painful looking grimaces crossing his face.

“They embrace it,” he explains, groaning softly when Darcy spreads some paste across the largest wound on his chest. He lifts his arms as she begins to wind a bandage around him. “Not all of them, but some of them treat the full moon as an adventure, and not in the way Sirius and your father thought of it.” Lupin avoids her eyes now, looking ashamed. “They speak of their victims with pride—children they’ve bitten and turned, people they’ve attacked and scarred, others who have not survived an encounter with them.”

Darcy’s stomach churns, but she remains silent, bandaging the rest of him. Without the blood staining his skin, Darcy gets a better look at his body, feeling rather breathless when she notices the muscle that he’s gained over the past few weeks, the way his stomach is much harder, his chest much broader.

“They knew me, right away,” he admits. “They knew what I had done, how I had lived, who I had loved. I would have been back sooner if it hadn’t taken me so long to earn their trust.”

Darcy glances at him, the scars on his face pronounced, half hidden beneath the uneven scruff on his face.

“I belong there,” Lupin murmurs, turning away from her completely to look into the fire. “I belong with others like myself. I was disgusted at first, the way they spoke of infecting others, but…that’s all I am, isn’t it? A monster?”

“You’re nothing like them,” Darcy insists, leaning back slightly to admire her handiwork and beginning to clean up Gemma’s leftover things. “You’re a good man, not a monster.”

“I attacked you,” Lupin says bluntly, as if Darcy could have forgotten. “I am not innocent. Whether or not you’ve forgiven me, I still allowed it to happen. I stayed at Hogwarts knowing it could happen again, and it almost did. I will never forgive myself for what I’ve done to you.”

“That’s what makes you a far better man than the others,” Darcy says, touching his cheek to turn his face back towards hers. He closes his eyes to hide the tears that build up in those soft and sweet eyes. “Remus, it’s all right to forgive yourself. You are not a bad person. You are not a monster.”

“How can I forgive myself? I think of it all the time, wonder what your parents would say if they knew.”

“Remus,” Darcy begins, “Harry knows, Gemma and Hermione and Ron. Sirius knows, and none of them treat you any differently. They aren’t afraid of you. They know you aren’t a monster. They know you never meant to, and they know you would never hurt anyone if you could help it.”

When he still refuses to look at her, instead turning his face away again, Darcy takes his hand in hers and places it to her cheek. Lupin keeps it there, and she nuzzles into his warm palm.

“You don’t belong with them,” she whispers, her cheek cold when he pulls his hand away. “You belong here, with us, with people who love you. We know who you really are.”

“Darcy—” Lupin exhales loudly, looking pained. He reaches out for her scarf, unraveling it and pulling it away from her, setting it down on the sofa. With trembling fingers, he tugs at the collar of her sweater to reveal half of the scars on her shoulder. He looks at them for a long time, shaking his head, becoming increasingly distressed and panicked and Darcy feels her heart racing painfully, feeling so bad for him, wishing he’d stop looking. “I am so, _so_ sorry—”

“Stop it,” Darcy frowns, prying his fingers away from her collar, twining her fingers with his. “Remus, look at me.”

Reluctantly, as if it’s the last thing he wants to do, Lupin turns his head again, lifting his eyes from the floor to her face. She forces herself to give him a small smile, combing his hair out of his eyes and laying a hand upon his cheek again.

“I forgive you.”

Without warning, catching her completely unawares, Lupin falls into her, nearly rolling right off the sofa and grunting as Darcy attempts to catch him before he hits the ground hard. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, and Darcy blinks in surprise at the sound and feel of him crying against her. She wraps her arms around him, running her hands through his hair, severely uncomfortable with her knees digging into the hard carpet, but not wanting to ever move from this spot.

It is her turn to love him, to comfort him, and Darcy is pleased that it comes so easily to her. She remembers all of the times Lupin had comforted her as she had cried, and she takes a page from his own book. Darcy kisses his forehead, murmuring words of love and praise— _especially_ praise—against his warm skin, fingers combing through his graying hair.

It takes her nearly thirty minutes to coerce him back onto the sofa, trying her hardest to avoid touching his bandages. Lupin cringes and groans as he settles, getting comfortable. “I’m sorry,” Darcy whispers, sitting by his side and smoothing his hair back. “I wish I could have done more. I can get Gemma, if you’d like.”

Lupin shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Your hands are much gentler.”

Darcy smiles, blushing slightly. “Gemma could make you better.”

“I don’t want Gemma right now, I want you.”

“You’re flattering me.” Darcy’s glad he chuckles, the sight of him smiling and laughing the best sight she’s seen in weeks.

“It’s true,” Lupin insists, still grinning, but his jaw is clenched in pain, it seems. “I seem to recall two other times you came to care for me after a full moon, and if I recall correctly, both of those times ended with much less crying and it turned out well, I thought. For me, at least.”

They share another quiet laugh. “I was so nervous when I came to you that night,” she confesses, taking his hand in hers. Their fingers roll together weakly and distractedly. “You always made me so nervous.”

“I think your entire body blushed when I finally got you out of your clothes, as if I wouldn’t like what I was seeing.”

“Now you’re just _trying_ to make me blush,” Darcy answers quickly, not bothering to look away as a flush creeps up her neck. She looks over her shoulder at the still closed door, swallowing hard as she turns back to Lupin. “I missed you. Every weekend I would come here, I hoped you’d be back. And then I thought—what if you never came back to me?”

“I’ll always come back,” he purrs, bringing her hand to his lips and placing soft kisses on each of her fingers. “Come kiss me.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Darcy indulges him. A soft kiss, just like the one she’d given him that night in April, the night that seems like a lifetime ago, when she had confessed her feelings for him, given him herself, her body, her love, because it was the only thing she had to give that was enough. When she pulls away, Lupin chuckles again. “What?” she asks, blushing again, touching her lips.

A weak smile still plays on his lips, begging to be kissed again. “I’ve been gone for nearly six weeks, and that’s the kiss you give me?”

Darcy furrows her brow, trying to push Snape’s words to the back of her mind, not wanting to hear his voice now. _Why do you let him walk all over you_? “What did you expect?” she asks, pulling her hand away from his, meeting some resistance on Lupin’s end, but he obliges in the end. “I’m not yours.”

“Darcy—”

“Tell me I’m yours and you are mine,” she whispers, lightly tracing an old scar on his stomach with her fingertip. “And I’ll kiss you the way you deserve to be kissed.”

“I can’t.” His voice cracks, hoarse and desperate. “I’ll have to go back, you know. And I don’t know for how long.”

The thought makes Darcy’s heart shatter. The thought of him leaving again, for an indefinite amount of time, knowing that he may come back looking worse, knowing that he may not come back at all. “Just promise me you won’t love anyone else.”

Lupin smiles at this. “I promise.”

Darcy tries to hide her happiness and eagerness, but she knows Lupin notices, and he smiles wider. They both laugh nervously, breathlessly, and before he can say anything more, Darcy kisses him again, this time open-mouthed and tender, and when she pulls away, he cranes his neck out to kiss her again. She gives him one more on the lips before kissing down his neck and lingering at the hollow of his throat. He sighs in response, a soft moan leaving him, vibrating against her lips. Emboldened by his response to her kisses, Darcy continues down his chest, carefully avoiding his fresh, bandaged wounds.

When her lips touch the skin just below his navel and her fingers curl underneath the waistband of his pants, Lupin stops her before she can go any further, breathing a little heavier than he had been, and looking a little more flushed. He shakes his head very slightly, his eyes flicking towards the doorway.

“Let me take care of you,” she breathes, kissing his stomach again. “No one will come in here. Don’t you want me to?”

He inhales sharply. “You’ve done more than enough for me tonight.”

Darcy sits back up straighter, kissing him on the mouth again. “I want to,” she murmurs against his lips. “Six weeks it’s been. Let me give you a proper homecoming, just in case I’m not here to give you a proper send off next time.”

Lupin smiles incredulously. “I must be the luckiest man in the world.”

“Is that supposed to be a yes?” Darcy giggles, kissing his cheek and resting her forehead against it.

“It is, most definitely, unequivocally, absolutely a _yes_ ,” Lupin growls, allowing Darcy’s lips to trail back down his front, and this time when her fingers curl inside the waistband of his pants, he does nothing to stop her. A voice from the other side of the door does stop her, however.

“Sirius is going to be barging in here in about thirty seconds—you better not be doing anything you want him to catch you at!” Gemma hisses, knocking rapidly on the door before disappearing, her footsteps growing quieter and quieter.

Darcy sighs, looking up at Lupin again with an apologetic look. “Sorry,” she whispers.

“It’s all right,” Lupin replies, but he sounds impatient and short. “I’ve got you all weekend, haven’t I?”

“Only if you’re good,” Darcy teases, brushing her fingers up the front of his pants, leaving her hand there for a moment before getting to her feet.

“ _Darcy_ —” he sputters, as footsteps sound outside the drawing room.

His cheeks bright pink, Lupin struggles to adjust his pants as the door opens quickly to reveal a very suspicious looking Sirius, who doesn’t fail to notice Lupin’s desperate grab at a nearby blanket and his hurried attempt to cover himself with it. 


	43. Chapter 43

Darcy decides to honor her promise that night, slipping into Lupin’s unlocked bedroom long after both Sirius and Gemma have fallen asleep. Propped up with several pillows, Lupin’s breath comes slow and heavy, bathed in the white light of the moon outside, dressed in fresh bandages courtesy of Gemma (despite his feeble protests that Darcy had done a fine enough job). She pulls her pajama shirt over her head and lets it fall to the floor along with the rest of Lupin’s clothes strewn about the bedroom.

She crawls into his bed, carefully straddling his waist and kissing his bare chest, startling him awake. “Darcy,” Lupin breathes, pushing himself up painfully.

“Hi,” she whispers, kissing him softly.

A cool, easy smile graces his tired face, taking her breath away. “Hey,” he answers, his voice hardly there. Lupin’s eyes flick to her shoulder, immediately looking troubled, his hand covering them, his callused thumb brushing over the raised scars there. “Come here. I haven’t hugged you properly yet.”

Darcy blinks in surprise, but leans into him, burying her face in his neck and closing her eyes as strong arms wrap around her. She isn’t sure if it’s Lupin’s arms that make her do it, or maybe it’s the fact that she’s processing everything finally, but she begins to sob against him, fat tears soaking his skin. Lupin sits up, holding her tighter, fingers raking through her hair as he shushes her.

“Darcy,” he whispers, placing a kiss to her shoulder, and she can feel him smiling weakly against her. “Why are you crying?”

“I thought I would never see you again.” Darcy lifts her head from his shoulder to look him in the face. Lupin wipes her tears with his thumbs, smiling sweetly at her, sympathetically, a little sad looking. “Dumbledore brought you back to me, and he almost took you away from me, too.”

“Listen to me,” Lupin says, smoothing her hair back and bringing her face towards him to press his lips to her forehead. “You’re a very sweet girl, my love, and it means more to me than you know to see you so worried about me.” His fingertips trace the angle of her jaw, her lips, his eyes lingering there, as if meaning to kiss her, but he doesn’t. “Do you remember when you came to me, that day Harry fell off his broomstick?”

She nods, wondering where this could possibly be going.

“Do you remember what I told you?”

Darcy’s heart flutters for a moment at the thought that Lupin remembers that night so well, the night she had told him everything, the night she had realized what immense comfort that he could bring her. She had gone so long feeling perfectly misunderstood, and it was as if her heart had healed a little bit at his knowing of her pain and suffering and hurt. “Yes,” she answers. “Life will never be simple for people like you and me.”

“You _do_ remember.”

Darcy sniffles, the hands upon her face so warm, so safe, so familiar. She touches his right hand, turning her face to kiss his palm and each of his fingertips. The sheer knowledge that he allows her to, the sight of Lupin smiling with each small kiss, makes Darcy feel something she doesn’t think she’s truly felt in so long—it makes her _happy_ , an almost foreign feeling in the pit of her stomach, a clenching and the fluttering of butterflies. The tears stop flowing, the panic she’d been feeling begins to settle, and she carefully leans in again to kiss him hard upon the mouth, teeth clashing and wet and open-mouthed.

Lupin’s arms wrap tight around her neck, holding her close to him and making her back ache as she tries to keep herself from pressing her chest to the bandages wrapped around him. But Lupin pulls her to him anyway, kissing her as if he’s never done it before. He touches Darcy with fumbling hands, with the grace of a pre-adolescent boy, as if it’s his first time touching a woman, memorizing the curves of her body and the way her skin feels beneath his hands, fingers catching on the tangles in her auburn hair when he combs them through it. It’s only when Darcy lifts herself out of his lap, her hands working furiously to get his pants down, does Lupin pull away from her, grabbing her hands.

“Wait,” he pants, giving her an apologetic look. “Wait, wait, wait.”

“What?” Darcy asks, her eyebrows knitting together. “Do you not—” She shifts awkwardly on the bed and blushes furiously. “Do you not want me?”

Lupin squeezes her hands tighter. “No,” he chuckles. “It’s not that, it’s just…” Releasing one of her hands, he rubs the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “I haven’t seen you in weeks, and there are some things I want to say to you now that we’re alone again, and I—it’s _very_ difficult to do this while you’re not wearing a shirt.”

Darcy quickly covers her chest, feeling humiliated. Lupin laughs again, a laughter that seems to come easily to him, and he takes hold of her wrists gently, pulling her hands away to reveal herself.

“It’s all right,” he smiles, cupping her breasts very hesitantly, his eyes meeting hers for a moment as if asking silent permission. “I missed you.”

“That’s what you couldn’t say around other people?” Darcy asks, nearly sighing in relief. “I expected something a bit more…well, I don’t know.”

“I apologize if you were expecting something a little more heartfelt,” Lupin teases. “You know that kind of stuff doesn’t come easily to me—though, if you push heavy amounts of alcohol on me, it becomes a little easier.” He lowers his hands from her breasts, sighing heavily. “I thought, for weeks, of what I was going to say to you the moment I saw you again. Though, I never anticipated being so sore that I couldn’t even hug you.”

“And what was it that you were going to say to me, exactly?”

“It was going to be something about how beautiful you are and how much I ached for you while I was gone, and about how much I wanted to leave all of this behind, and it wouldn’t really be heartfelt without just a dash of self-loathing, would it? So I thought I might remind you how I will never be good enough for you, and how I shouldn’t be so…selfish, I suppose, by doing this to you.”

“You’ve clearly thought it through,” Darcy says, smiling weakly, kissing him again. This time, Lupin does not smile against her lips.

“Six weeks I spent there, with no one for company except my own thoughts at night,” Lupin sighs, running the backs of his fingers down her arms. “And by day, surrounded by those that are my equals. I’ve had a lot of time to think.”

Darcy brushes his hair out of his eyes, wondering if he’d let her give him a haircut in the morning. “Tell me,” she whispers, collapsing onto the bed beside him and looking up into his face. She traces the exposed scars on his chest and stomach, kissing his shoulder. “If you want.”

His answer comes almost immediately, spilling out of him, as if he’s been bursting to ask her this for years. “Would you have been happier if I wasn’t…what I am?”

“No,” Darcy answers, just as quickly. It’s not a lie, not at all, and she’s pleased to see him look slightly relieved before looking uncomfortable again. “Part of the reason I fell in love with you was because you understood me. You know what it’s like to hurt. You know what it’s like to suffer. Not that I’m, you know, _happy_ you’re a werewolf, I mean—I’m not—I just mean that—”

“I get it,” Lupin interrupts, rolling very slowly onto his side to face her. At first, judging by the expression, Darcy thinks he’s in pain, but then he runs a hand through his hair and musses it up in frustration. “You don’t want me, Darcy. If you could have seen the way I’d lived the past few weeks, you would be disgusted—”

“It wasn’t your choice to live with them.” Darcy slips under the blankets, pulling them up to cover her chest.

“Only because I am fortunate enough to have a friend who would open his home to me,” Lupin hisses, his voice laced with bitterness, disgust. “You did not see the state I lived in before I came to Hogwarts. You saw how I lived with a steady income, not the—the sorry state I lived in before, where food was a luxury.”

Darcy remembers seeing him on the Hogwarts Express for the first time, how thin he had been and how sickly he had looked. A few square meals had done wonders for him—Darcy hadn’t failed to notice the way he’d filled out quite nicely, even with his body hidden under his robes and the heavy traveling cloak he’d wear when they went on walks around the grounds. She had fallen in love with him on the grounds of Hogwarts—his enthusiasm and dry humor in classes, all the easy smiles flashed at her from across the Great Hall, the stolen kisses and touches, the casual flirting. It all seems so long ago now, they had seemed so young and not weighed down by anxiety and guilt and a terrible sense of self worth. The war was not yet looming over them, and the consequences did not seem so real—all that mattered what that they had found each other again just when they needed each other, and they had loved each other in ways they had never been loved.

Lupin seems far older now than when she’d met him at Hogwarts. Maybe it’s the general air of weariness that follows him everywhere, the cloud that seems to follow him after he’s been alone for too long.

“You will never have to live like that again,” Darcy promises, touching his face. He closes his eyes at her touch.

“I would never ask that of you, Darcy,” Lupin sighs. His eyes flutter open when she lifts her hand from his face to touch his broad shoulders, hard muscle. It takes her breath away. “I could never give you what you wanted. The house you wanted, the life you wanted. I would have given you everything if I could have. It’s what you deserve.”

Darcy smiles, shaking her head. “ _Things_ ,” she says with a small laugh. “I’m not interested in material things. If I wanted something, I would just buy it myself. I grew up with Dudley, the most spoiled boy I’ve ever known, and all the things in the world didn’t make him any better of a person. I didn’t need you to buy things for me.” She combs his hair back, the moonlight illuminating the gray streaks in his hair. “You gave me the things I needed. You showed me what is it to be loved, comforted, appreciated, understood. You gave me a home when I had never known one. Those are the things that matter to me.”

Lupin smiles sheepishly, as if not entirely convinced.

“I’m glad it was you,” she confesses. “I wouldn’t have wanted it to be anyone else. Remus, I—” Heaving a great sigh, steeling herself, she doesn’t stop to think about what she’s doing, only knows she needs Lupin to know how much she’s missed him, how much she loves him. Darcy gently coerces him onto his back again, climbing on top of him. “Are you all right? Does it hurt?”

He shifts slightly, exhaling loudly and settling his hands on Darcy’s hips. “No, it’s all right.”

“I’ll be gentle, I promise. Do you trust me?”

Lupin smiles a genuine, soft smile. “I trust you.”

* * *

“ _Checkmate_! Checkmate, checkmate, checkmate!” Gemma holds her arms up in the air triumphantly before holding a hand to her chest and laughing heartily. “My heart is _racing_ —I was so excited to win right now. Who knew speed chess was such a thrilling experience?”

“Best out of three,” Lupin answers bitterly, the both of them scrambling to set their side of the board again.

Darcy checks her watch, glancing back down at the stack of essays she’s yet to grade. Ten to one—still early. She mentally kicks herself for waiting so long to do these essays. Her mind is on other things, however. Dumbledore had never told her when he was going to arrive at Grimmauld Place to speak with her, and she grows more jittery with every passing hour. Darcy had been eager to talk with him, to ask him questions he has always avoided answering, hoping maybe today will be the day. But she’s angry with him—angry for sending Lupin to the werewolves, angry for putting him in such danger, for not caring about Darcy’s need and love for him, not seeing him as a valuable life. What did it matter to Dumbledore if Lupin came back injured so long as he got information? Dwelling on the thoughts make her angrier, and Darcy’s partially afraid that anger will explode upon her meeting with Dumbledore.

Darcy’s also been rather preoccupied with thoughts about her article. Has Hermione already met with Rita Skeeter? Has she already passed along the article? Has Rita already schemed a way to change everything? Part of Darcy wants to just go check in with them at Hogsmeade and rip the article out of Rita’s long-fingered hand and burn it. Lupin’s talk of werewolves had made her nervous, and doubt and panic has begun to take up residence in the back of her mind. If the article is published, will the werewolves be offended? Lupin had admitted they’d known him and known of what he and Darcy had done; would they take their anger out on Lupin in retaliation? To prove a point? Is the article nothing more than a death sentence?

_What have I done?_

But there’s no way for her to retrieve the article now. She supposes she could talk to Luna about not publishing it, but she’s sure Rita would take it elsewhere. Rita, the opportunist, hungry for an audience, with Darcy Potter’s own writing in her hands…she would definitely bring it somewhere else, or else use it against Darcy. She’s too much of a coward to tell Lupin what she’s done, for fear of him lashing out, and when she had confided in Gemma her doubts, Gemma had only shrugged and said, “This is war, Darcy. No one is safe now,” which hadn’t been a very suitable answer for Darcy.

“Aha!” Sirius grins from the sofa, his legs dangling over the arm of it. A tiny wireless sits upon his chest as he fiddles with the dial, having finally found a working station.

Darcy packs up her things, unable to concentrate with the music floating through the drawing room and the constant _click-click-click_ of the timer being stopped and started by Lupin and Gemma during their chess game. She watches them distractedly for a moment, unable to keep up with their unnaturally fast game. Gemma’s brow is furrowed as she keeps her eyes fixed upon the board, dark eyes flashing from her pieces to his; Lupin clenches his jaw, his left leg bouncing rapidly, knowing exactly what he’s going to do without even needing to think about it.

Darcy watches him for a moment, sure Lupin doesn’t notice her with the way he’s concentrating on the board. She notices the corners of his lips turn upwards when Gemma moves her knight ahead a few spaces and he quickly takes it with his bishop. Gemma swears loudly, moving her queen forward to take his bishop.

“Checkmate,” Lupin laughs as Gemma groans into her hands. He turns his head suddenly to smile at Darcy, making her blush.

“What song is this?” Gemma asks, turning towards Sirius.

“Dunno. Azkaban didn’t provide music for us.” Sirius sits up, still holding the radio. “It’s terrible, but I love it.”

Gemma grins at him. “Fancy a match, Sirius?”

“Yeah, all right.”

Darcy gets to her feet, stretching. Lupin watches her as Gemma and Sirius fuss with the pieces, his eyes drifting down her as her sweater lifts to expose the lower part of her stomach. She blushes again, lowering her arms and turning to leave the room, checking her watch again. Darcy doesn’t get halfway down the hall when Lupin’s hurried footsteps approach her.

“Going somewhere?”

“The kitchen,” she chuckles. “I’m hungry. Go sit down. You should be resting.”

“I hardly think walking to the kitchen is overexerting myself.” Lupin scoops her hand in his, lacing their fingers together and casting a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure no one is watching. “Besides, if I do overexert myself, you’ll take care of me, won’t you?”

“If you want to be cared for, you don’t have to play the part of a wounded animal,” Darcy teases, releasing his hand to grab the necessary things for a sandwich. “You need only ask.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Darcy looks up at him curiously, trying to stifle a smile. “You’re in a good mood today,” she notes quickly, looking back down at the counter.

“Why shouldn’t I be? I’m back here for the first time in weeks. Dusty and dank this place may be, the bed is far more comfortable than what I’ve been sleeping on.” Lupin leans carefully against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I had such a wonderful dream last night that involved you sneaking into my room and doing such filthy things to me. Imagine my disappointment when I woke up alone.”

Darcy blushes once again, cursing him silently, focusing on making her sandwich. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she says, in a voice very unlike her own. “Dreaming such things of me.”

Lupin continues to watch her, eyes roving her profile. “How have you been, Darcy? How have things been at Hogwarts?”

“It’s been fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Just fine.” She feels guilty about not confession then about the article, or about what she and Snape had seen in the Pensieve. It weighs on her, and Darcy feels meeting his eyes is suddenly very difficult. The thought of what backlash caused by the article could do to Lupin make her feel sick. “Umbridge has seen fit to stop torturing me for the time being. Classes have been going well. Professor Snape has found it in him to be somewhat decent to me, and during my off time, I drink heavily in order to avoid having nightmares.”

Lupin blinks, seemingly unfazed, taking a moment to process all of this information. “You’re having nightmares again?”

“Did they ever go away?” Darcy asks mildly, finishing her sandwich and ignoring it to turn towards him. “I could use Sleeping Draughts, but I want to remember, even though it frightens me.”

He’s quiet for a moment, rubbing the scruff on his face.

If she doesn’t tell him now, she will not say it at all. She nearly explodes. “Remus,” she begins slowly, feeling the tears coming already. “I did something _so_ stupid.”

Lupin’s jaw clenches. “What have you done, Darcy?”

“I—”

Someone knocks gently at the kitchen door and opens it smoothly. Darcy and Lupin look at each for a few moments before turning to look who has entered, and Darcy’s stomach churns violently at the sight of Professor Dumbledore, smiling politely at the two of them.

“Remus,” Dumbledore says, clearly pleased to see him. “It’s very good to see you. When did you return?”

“Just last night,” Lupin answers, straightening up. “I’ve much to tell you.”

“Then let us waste no time.” Dumbledore motions for Lupin to take a seat at the kitchen table. Darcy hovers awkwardly for a moment, wondering if Dumbledore will allow her to stay, but as she makes to sit beside Lupin, Dumbledore gives her an apologetic smile. “Darcy, I know what you have to say is very important, and I promise we will still speak today. But I must ask that you wait a little bit longer—I must speak to Remus. We won’t be long.”

Feeling slightly hurt and betrayed, Darcy walks silently out of the kitchen, closing the door behind her. She lingers for a moment, but can hear nothing of what they’re saying, so she starts for her bedroom, not wanting to return to Sirius and Gemma. Darcy knows that Lupin’s information is probably more urgent and pressing, but it would have been nice for Dumbledore to acknowledge her first. But at least her acknowledges her, something that has bothered Harry for months after being completely ignored by the Headmaster.

And to think, Dumbledore’s probably setting up another community for Lupin to infiltrate, like he’s a piece of meat to be sacrificed—as if his life means nothing. Maybe it is war, but Lupin doesn’t deserve that—after all he’s been through, let him have a normal life, she thinks.

_Let him have a normal life with me_ , she pleads.

It had felt so normal just last night, after Darcy had peppered his body and face with soft, sweet kisses, after she had fulfilled her promise of being gentle. She can’t pretend she hadn’t dreamed it would be different—she hadn’t stopped to think he might be sore when he came back, or injured. She had dreamed of him pounding into her from behind, making her cry out for him and kissing the curve of her spine, fingers tangled in her hair. But Darcy thinks last night may have been better than her dreams. His thumbs had dug into her hips, guiding her at a tantalizingly slow pace to keep him from hurting, and Lupin had kissed her far more than Darcy had expected—which is a good thing, _absolutely_ a good thing. Lupin had whimpered her name— _Darcy, Darcy, Darcy_ —and crumbled beneath her, as if he had been gone for six years instead of six weeks, as if Darcy had never touched him before.

Are you okay? she’d ask him. Does this hurt? Do you want me to stop? Do you want me to touch you here, instead? Would a kiss make it better?

He’d been more than receptive to her touch, and Darcy hates admitting it—even to herself—but knowing he enjoyed it so much had made her feel _good_. That, despite how alone she feels, someone still craves her presence and her touch and her kisses, someone still appreciates her for her. To have so much power over someone is slightly intimidating and exciting, to know her hands and fingers and mouth have the ability to bring a grown man to his knees is far more enjoyable than it should be, she thinks.

She had curled up against the crook of his arm afterwards, an arm draped lightly across his stomach. His fingers had traced distracted patterns on her arm, and every so often they’d placed kisses wherever they could reach, on his chest, on her head, on her fingers. It was the most normal Darcy had felt in months, laying there in silence, enjoying his presence, so happy to have him home, so in love with him. Yet she’d woken early and snuck out of bed, tip toeing downstairs to play the piano. It had woken Lupin, just as she’d hoped it would, and he’d kissed the crook of her neck when she’d finished, and Darcy had almost let him take her there in the drawing room.

Lupin and Dumbledore talk for much longer than Darcy had hoped. Forty-five minutes goes by and she becomes restless, pacing about her bedroom, smoking cigarette after cigarette, fumbling with the matches before swearing and just using her wand. She knows that, when she and Dumbledore finish their own private conversation, Lupin will question her tonight about what she has done, will not drop it, but will continue to press her for an answer. And how is Darcy supposed to explain that she and Snape had dived into her worst memory and watched Lily die again? How is she supposed to explain why she had done it? And why she had done it with Snape? Darcy doesn’t think Lupin will be so understanding after hearing about this, and she hopes he does not force it out of her.

It’s an hour and fifteen minutes before Lupin enters the smoky bedroom, tactful enough not to say anything about the choking smell. Darcy chews on her fingernails, her heart racing, wishing she had thought to take a shot of something, something to give her liquid courage, something to help her not be such a coward.

“He’s ready for you,” Lupin says, running a hand through his hair and taking a few steps closer to her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting so long. I know patience isn’t one of your virtues.”

Darcy nods adjusting her hair, spraying herself with perfume. “How do I look?”

“Very pretty,” he smiles, looking slightly suspicious. “What are you and Dumbledore going to talk about, anyway?”

“My job,” she lies smoothly, avoiding Lupin’s eyes to look over herself quickly in the mirror.

“You’re such a liar, Darcy.” Lupin crosses his arms, closing the door behind him and shaking his head. He steps behind her, looking at her reflection from over her own shoulder. “Why are you lying to me? Have you done something shameful? Are you letting another boy warm your bed at night? What secrets are you keeping from me?”

“Even if I was keeping secrets from you, what makes you think I’d tell you?” Darcy asks, blushing. She doesn’t take her eyes off his face in the mirror. “You think you’re entitled to everything, don’t you?”

Lupin opens his mouth to speak, looking puzzled, but closes it and chuckles instead. “You’ve always told me everything,” he murmurs, placing a kiss just behind her ear. “I didn’t mean to sound so hungry for your secrets.”

Darcy decides not to answer him, not wanting to accidentally say something she doesn’t mean. “So when is he sending you back, then?”

Lupin’s face falls and he stands up straight, placing his hands on her shoulders, gently sighing his thumb into the tight muscles. “We’re to speak again when I’m fully recovered.”

Her body tenses, despite his hands working fluidly on her shoulders and neck. Darcy doesn’t feel at all bad for keeping Dumbledore waiting, the news that Lupin is likely going to leave soon much more hurtful than she’d thought it might be. “Don’t go,” she rasps, wincing as his thumb digs a little too hard into her shoulder blade. “Stay.”

Upon catching sight of his face again in the mirror, Darcy notices the stress clearly visible in his suddenly hardened eyes, the weariness that shows with the premature lines on his face, but when Lupin catches her staring, a tired and amused smile tugs at his lips. “Beg all you want,” he says softly, raising one of his eyebrows. “When have you ever stayed simply because I asked?”

“Will you at least think about it if I get down on my knees and beg?” Darcy turns around, and his hands fall from her shoulders. His weak smile doesn’t falter, however, and he looks down into her face almost sympathetically.

“A very tempting offer, but one I must refuse.” Lupin drags the back of his fingers lightly over her cheekbone. “Don’t keep Dumbledore waiting, my love. It’s not polite.”

“He’s just kept me waiting over an hour,” Darcy retorts hotly, frowning. “As if what I have to say isn’t important. That’s typical, isn’t it?”

Lupin blinks in surprise, shrugging his shoulders. “Is it typical? Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“No,” Darcy says. “You just told me not to keep Dumbledore waiting.”

“I’m certainly not going to complain if you wish to spend a few more minutes with me.”

Darcy narrows her eyes. “What are you doing?”

Lupin laughs nervously, his cheeks flushing suddenly. “I’m trying to flirt with you,” he answers sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is it not obvious?”

“No, I got that part loud and clear. Why, though?”

He shifts uncomfortably, his cheeks growing pinker. “Would you...rather I not?” he asks. “I’m sorry—I thought—were you not flirting back? Am I misreading things?”

“No, no, I was—it’s just that—” Darcy sighs heavily. “I should probably go talk to Professor Dumbledore.”

Nodding, Lupin walks Darcy down to the kitchen, a firm hand upon the small of her back. Darcy is surprised that it gives her so much comfort, and his warm hand is just as good as a shot of firewhisky in this moment. At the doorway, Lupin smiles sweetly at her before giving Darcy a gentle push inside, where Dumbledore is waiting patiently at the table. Darcy closes the door behind her, her heart rate quickening again, and she sits across the table from him, where Lupin had been seated just a few minutes ago.

“I apologize for the wait, Darcy,” Dumbledore says, looking generally exhausted and old. She suddenly feels very bad for meeting with him, not wanting to trouble him, knowing that what she has to say will likely only exhaust him further. “I hope you do not feel pushed to the side, but I have been looking forward to touching base with Remus for quite some time now, and it could not wait any longer. You are not the only one who seeks an audience with me, you see, and I find it difficult sometimes to prioritize. You understand, of course?”

“Yes, sir,” Darcy says, holding her hands in her lap. All of her anger seems to have evaporated—whether it’s because of her overwhelming joy at having Lupin back, or because she feels bad for Dumbledore, she isn’t sure. “If you’d rather talk another time, I’d understand—”

“I promised you we would talk today,” Dumbledore cuts across her, his voice firm. “And so we will. What’s on your mind, Darcy?”

She hadn’t meant to talk about Lupin at all, but the idea of having him stay at Grimmauld Place is far more appealing than seeing him leave again for an indefinite amount of time, not knowing the condition he will come back in, or whether he will come back at all. “How could you send him away like that?” Darcy asks, already wanting to cry. “Do you have any idea the state he was in when I saw him last night?”

“Has Remus told you where he’s been?” His tone does not sound accusing, merely curious, and Darcy nods. “Then you know he is best suited to the job. Remus has done me a great service by agreeing to go, and I am not ungrateful, nor am I sympathetic. I knew that it would be dangerous, and I warned him of such dangers when I asked if he was interested.”

“I cannot lose him,” Darcy insists, feeling childish admitting it, but knowing it’s nothing but the truth. “You would take him away from me as if he is nothing. He doesn’t deserve that. You told me you wouldn’t let anything happen to him, Professor, just last June I asked you to make sure nothing happens to him.”

“Promises like that are difficult to keep during times like these,” Dumbledore explains gently, as if speaking to a curious child. “Remus is well aware of the risks he is taking when he leaves this place, is well aware there is a chance he may not come back, is well aware there are things worth dying for. Everyone in the Order understands this, and until you understand the level of personal sacrifice involved, I am hesitant to involve you more.”

Darcy frowns, slightly insulted. But she doesn’t care—she doesn’t care that she isn’t involved in the Order. She doesn’t care that she doesn’t understand. “Find someone else.” Darcy shakes her head, wondering for a moment if Dumbledore would stand up and hit her across the face for showing such disrespect. “He’s been through enough. Leave him alone. Find someone else.”

Dumbledore does not look away from her, his gaze very heavy, very powerful and intimidating. She doesn’t want to back down, so she blushes instead. “I admire your love for him,” Dumbledore finally says, the last thing Darcy expects to leave his mouth. “I’m sure Remus would be very touched to hear you defending his life with such tenacity. But I did not force him into this—he agreed to go. I gave him time to think on it, in case he decided he would rather stay here for personal and private reasons, but he agreed in the end.”

Darcy privately thinks it stupid of Dumbledore to think Lupin would say no to helping the Order. “Why did you bring him back to me then, if you were just going to take him away from me?”

Dumbledore sighs deeply, seemingly exasperated, his patience running thin. “Someone must fight against Voldemort. Remus understands what life could be like under Voldemort’s rule—he has experienced it firsthand, witnessed the pain and death and suffering. Has it occurred to you, Darcy, that perhaps he chooses to fight in order to give you the opportunity for a better life?”

Darcy falters, hesitating only a moment. “You think Remus went for me? No.” She leans back in her chair. “He went because you asked him, Professor, and who is he to say no to you?”

“Are those his words?”

“Well—” Darcy stammers. “No, but—”

“Then why don’t you ask him yourself when we finish with our meeting?”

A long silence greets these words, and Darcy’s heart skips a beat at the thought that Lupin might have actually gone to the werewolves for her. _No, that’s stupid. He went because he wanted to be useful. He went because he was the best fit for the job, like Dumbledore said_. “Sir,” Darcy begins again, hoping she sounds a little more polite. “There are things that I’ve been wanting answers to for a long time now.”

Dumbledore steeples his fingers together. “Please, ask away, and if I can answer them, I will.”

“If you can,” Darcy repeats. She doesn’t elaborate on this, but instead, plunges recklessly into her first question. “Why is it so important that I remain at Hogwarts? Not that I’m—well, terribly unhappy, but you’ve never told me _why_.”

“You’re safe at Hogwarts.”

“You’re lying.”

Dumbledore seems taken aback by her answer. He becomes a little more of the Headmaster she knows, casting a dark look at her across the table. “Excuse me?”

“I’m safe _here_ ,” she insists, blushing furiously, but needing to hear a proper answer. “I would have been safe with Remus last year, but you wouldn’t even allow me to leave. You wouldn’t allow me to resign. With Umbridge there, I am not safe. Professor McGonagall has already voiced concerns for my safety. So why am I really there, Professor?”

Dumbledore almost looks wary, uncomfortable with the current topic of conversation, but it gives Darcy some small flicker of pleasure. “It is important that Harry has someone near him like you. I want Harry to also know a mother’s love, a sister’s love. I did not want to separate you and your brother all those years ago, and I have no wish to do so now.”

It’s such a terrible, disappointing answer, that Darcy can’t help the anger that pulses through her. Her chest begins to heave and she rubs her temples, trying to control her temper. “I am not a five-year-old girl anymore, Professor,” Darcy says, her voice shaking slightly. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t understand how you came to be the one to make all decisions regarding me. I’d like to know why I’m twenty now, and am not able to make decisions for myself.”

“Darcy,” Dumbledore sighs, sounding older than ever. She wonders if he’s just pretending to sound weary in order to avoid answering her question. “Everything is to keep Harry safe. Everything has always been to keep Harry safe.”

“Our priorities are the same, then, sir,” Darcy says again, trying to reason with him, frustrated by his lack of explanation. “But I don’t understand _why_ I must be at Hogwarts for Harry to be safe.”

“You are good at what you do, Darcy. Professor Snape seems to enjoy your company, and you seem to enjoy his. This place, while a wonderful Headquarters, is not a place for you. I have seen you grow restless within the walls of Hogwarts when you felt trapped. I have seen what happens when you grow restless, when you feel a prisoner. I would worry too much if I left you here, knowing that you would have much more freedom at Hogwarts.”

“You didn’t worry too much about leaving me with the Dursleys,” Darcy says, her voice dripping with venom. “You didn’t worry about what they were doing to us—didn’t worry about how they were treating us when I showed up to school with bruises all over my body.”

“You wrong me. I care very deeply for you and your brother—”

“Then tell me the truth! I would be away from Umbridge here—I would be here, with my family, my godfather, the godfather that you had Hagrid rip me away from without a thought as to what I wanted.”

Dumbledore stares down his crooked nose at her, blue eyes glinting through his half-moon spectacles. There is no playful twinkle in them this time, instead the glazed over look of someone who is about to reveal information they have no desire to reveal. But when the silence extends, and Dumbledore does not give answer, Darcy thinks his silence is answer enough.

“You weren’t there,” Darcy continues, and she wipes at the tears begin to trickle down her cheeks. She doesn’t want to think about the memory, but it’s so hard not to—it’s hard not to remember how Darcy had clearly wanted to go with Sirius, how she’d wrapped her arms and legs around him in the hopes it would prevent Hagrid from taking her. “Hagrid pried me from Sirius’ chest. He didn’t care that I wanted to stay with Sirius. He didn’t care that I going to be taken to a home where I was unwanted.”

“The circumstances surrounding Lily and James’s death and their mystery Secret Keeper changed things,” Dumbledore finally answers. “Had I known right away that Peter was the Secret Keeper, things might have been different, but it is many years too late to fix things. All I can say is that I am sorry.”

“Sorry?” she breathes, feeling as if the wind has been knocked out of her. “I don’t want your apologies.”

“Then what do you want, Darcy?”

“ _Answers_ , damn it!” Darcy shouts, though Dumbledore seems unsurprised by her reaction. He lowers his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I want to know why I have to watch Gemma and Emily come and go as they please in meetings, allowed to do things that are deliberately kept from me! I want to know why I must be at Hogwarts, I want to know why you think you have the right to make decisions on my behalf when I’m an adult, I want to know why you forced Hagrid to separate a screaming child from someone who loved her!”

Dumbledore takes a moment to process her words, gives her a minute to calm down. Darcy’s face is flushed bright red and she wants to apologize for her shouting, but she forces herself not to, forces herself not to show any weakness, hoping that _maybe_ , just maybe, Dumbledore will tell her _something_.

“When the time comes, you will know everything, and I fear that time will come soon,” Dumbledore says slowly. “As to why I want you at Hogwarts and refuse to accept a resignation, Darcy, is because I feel you are at risk of absconding.”

“You think I’m a flight risk,” Darcy scoffs, in complete disbelief. Of all the things Dumbledore could have said, this is least expected. “You think I’m going to run away so you need to keep a close eye on me? Is that it?”

“Has the thought not crossed your mind?”

Darcy splutters, trying to seem casual, but failing miserably. “Just because it’s crossed my mind doesn’t mean I’d act on it,” she confesses. “I mean, wouldn’t you think about it every so often in my situation? Haven’t I proved to you that I know the right choice from the easy one? Haven’t I proved to you that I am and always will be the dutiful big sister?”

Dumbledore sighs again. “Darcy, when Professor McGonagall had told me she ran into you and Remus in Diagon Alley two summers ago, I feared. I feared that Remus would bring you into a loving home that you have never known—a home that not even Hogwarts has ever been to you.” He strokes his long, white beard absentmindedly. “And I knew you would struggle with your decision to return to Hogwarts—and you did. And I knew when you came here, to Sirius’ house, you would struggle with your decision again. And you are. You think I don’t understand—”

“Because you don’t,” Darcy snaps, her anger boiling over. She can’t stop herself—all the months she had held back, all the months she had been a good girl for Snape, it all comes spilling out of her. “You could never understand what I’ve been through—what I’m going through. He wanted to _marry_ me—Remus wanted to marry me and take me far away from here, but I stupidly refused because I knew my brother needed me, but I don’t even know that he truly wants me around anymore.”

It is clear to Darcy that this is brand new information to Dumbledore. He seems genuinely surprised at this, and does not hide it well.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to have everything you’ve ever wanted dangling in front of you,” she finishes breathlessly, “and to be constantly denied it without knowing why? You cannot stop me from walking out the doors of Hogwarts and never coming back.”

“You’re right,” Dumbledore nods. “I cannot stop you. But I know you will not walk away from Hogwarts. I know you too well, and I know you will not abandon Harry with Professor Umbridge there.”

Darcy sits quietly now, seething with rage. But she can feel it slowly leaving her, replaced with sadness.

“I will forgive your disrespect today, Darcy, seeing as we are in your home,” Dumbledore tells her sternly. “Is there anymore you feel the need to say before I leave? Now would be the perfect time since I am feeling so forgiving.”

Darcy grinds her teeth. The sheer audacity of Dumbledore annoys her to no end. He still hasn’t given her answers, does not understand that, while she does enjoy teaching and being at Hogwarts sometimes, just knowing why Dumbledore thinks it important that she is there would soothe her doubts—maybe. She thinks it really depends on his answer, but any answer would be preferable to none at this point.

“When the school year is over, Harry and I are going to come back here,” she says, trying to sound as commanding as possible. “We aren’t going to the Dursleys. And if we cannot come here, then I will take Harry away, as we planned for so long.”

“No,” Dumbledore answers, and Darcy raises her eyebrows. “If this home is available to you, then I will not object. If, however, it is not, I prefer you to return to Privet Drive.”

“Why can’t Harry be with me?”

“You are reckless and impulsive, Darcy,” Dumbledore continues, his tone icy. He frightens her slightly, and she sinks back in her chair, feeling now that she’s severely overstepped. “Reckless, impulsive, and I know that your intentions are almost always good, but good intentions hardly ever lead to good results.”

“I’m sorry, Professor?” Darcy asks meekly, dread flooding her.

“You’ll see what I mean when your article is published, Darcy.” Dumbledore nods at her, getting to her feet. “There is little going on at Hogwarts I do not know about.”

Her throat constricts and she almost gasps for air. How could he possibly know about that? Darcy wonders suddenly if he knows about what Professor Snape had allowed her to see in the Pensieve. She doesn’t dare ask, doesn’t want to look to guilty, and doesn’t know how to find out without being direct about it.

“Is there anything you wish to tell me?”

She looks away from him. “No, sir.”

He leaves her without another word. Darcy hears Sirius walking him to the door, and she continues to sit in the kitchen, wanting to cry, but feeling far too embarrassed to cry. All she’d wanted was a simple answer—was she really asking so much? Why did Dumbledore have to seem so secretive? What was he not telling her? Maybe she’d gone a little crazy, but that was warranted, right?

There’s some hushed muttering from just outside the kitchen, and then Sirius finally shuffles inside. He stands awkwardly for a moment, crossing his arms over his chest. “You okay, kid?”

Darcy doesn’t answer. She gets to her feet and walks slowly around the table to stand closer to Sirius. He lowers his hands to his sides, looking slightly apprehensive. Darcy wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face into his skin, closing her eyes. She can feel Sirius tense at first, but he hugs her all the same, cradling her head, holding her to him, much as he had done all those years ago. When her eyes flutter open again, she sees Lupin and Gemma smiling at her from the doorway, just outside the kitchen.

Maybe she can’t be here all the time, but Darcy knows that she still has this—a home to return to on weekends, a real home, always with someone here who loves her—Sirius, sometimes Lupin and other times Gemma. Maybe just knowing that there is somewhere where she can go to feel happy and content and wanted is enough. Maybe these little moments between her and Sirius are enough, slowly building this relationship they had never been allowed. Maybe the nights spent in Lupin’s bed, an arm curled around her, stolen kisses before he leaves again—maybe that is enough. Other nights, sleeping next to Gemma—a hand to hold when she’s lonely, a warm body beside her in an oversized bed, a familiar and comforting presence that Darcy craves while at Hogwarts—maybe those nights are enough.

The four of them stay up late together; Lupin lets Darcy win at chess three separate times before absolutely crushing her the fourth time round. Sirius fiddles with the wireless again, making small talk as he lounges upon the sofa. And when Sirius finally goes to bed and Gemma returns home for the night, leaving Darcy and Lupin alone, they sit in silence for a little while, watching the fire in the hearth die out.

Darcy finally turns to him. Lupin runs a hand slowly through his hair, the firelight catching his eyes just right as he looks back at her. There’s far too much distance between them, near the whole sofa. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I was going to tell you before Professor Dumbledore interrupted?” she asks him curiously.

“Do you want to tell me?”

“No, not really,” she shrugs. “But if you asked me, I’d probably tell you anyway.”

Lupin smiles weakly. “Then you don’t have to tell me.”

”Can I ask you something?”

”Anything,” he breathes, closing his eyes and sighing distractedly. 

“Why did you choose to go to the werewolves? Why didn’t you stay here?”

Lupin opens his eyes, thinking hard for a moment. “I suppose I went because...it was the right thing to do. If not me, then who?”

“And you never doubt your decision to go? You never want to just...run?”

He turns to look at her, considering her. “Sometimes,” he says. “But I have something to fight for again, and that makes it easier.”

”What do you fight for?”

He blinks, laughing quietly. “You, Darcy.”

Darcy leans back into the sofa, sighing out of relief, overwhelmed with love for him. Guilt eats away at her, knowing she should tell him about the article, but she’s too much of a coward to bring it up. “I think I’ll be going to bed now. Goodnight.”

She’s halfway to the door when Lupin says, “You can sleep with me, if you’d rather not sleep alone.” Darcy turns on her heel. He says it far too quickly, and they both blush.

“Are you sure?”

Lupin shifts restlessly upon the sofa. “I’ve grown used to having someone share my bed,” he admits. “I’m not quite ready to kick the habit.”

Darcy pauses. “Okay.”

He studies her for a moment, eyes focused intently upon her face. A slight frown appears on his own, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. “Are you all right, Darcy?”

“I’m fine, just ready for bed.” Darcy sighs. “I’m going to kiss you lots, do you know that?”

“Only if I can kiss you lots in return,” Lupin replies, a cheeky smile gracing his face, replacing the wary frown. He looks years younger, healthier and boyish.

“I’m yours for the night, then,” she smiles. “Come show me what your mouth is capable of.”

“You already know what my mouth is capable of.”

“It’s been so long, I’ve nearly forgotten.”

Lupin accompanies her upstairs to his bedroom, where he kisses her for a long time. The scruff on his face turns the sensitive skin around her lips bright pink, but she hates herself for letting Snape’s words and voice creep up on her again, reminding her that whatever she and Lupin have—while not toxic (after all, she thinks, there’s nothing wrong with seeking affection, and God knows they both crave it)—probably shouldn’t be happening in the first place. Snape was probably just angry and that’s why he said those things—he doesn’t know what happens between Darcy and Lupin in private, doesn’t know what sweet words they share behind closed doors.

Regardless of what is going on between them, Darcy knows one thing for certain—she’d much rather have _this_ with Lupin, than share anything remotely like it with Snape. 


	44. Chapter 44

“Remus? Is that you?”

Darcy gets a mouthful of pink hair, scowling at the back of Tonks’ head as she wraps her arms around Lupin’s neck without warning. He stumbles, grunts, and pats her awkwardly on the back as she continues to hold onto him. Taking a savage pleasure in the knowing that she had been the one to share Lupin’s bed last night, that she had been on the receiving end of Lupin’s kisses and touches, that it had been she Lupin left a shuddering and aching and incoherent mess, Darcy forces herself to turn away from Tonks to see who else has arrived.

Pressed against the dusty wall of the narrow hallway, Darcy is quite glad that Emily follows Tonks into Grimmauld Place. While Lupin and Tonks are distracted, Darcy grabs Emily by the wrist and pulls her towards the staircase, tiptoeing past the sleeping and momentarily quiet portrait of Mrs. Black. Emily doesn’t say a word, but follows Darcy all the same, casting her an anxious and bewildered look. Darcy pulls her into her bedroom, locking and bolting the door shut, and inhaling deeply.

“I’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake,” Darcy whispers desperately, running her hands through her hair.

“Okay,” Emily says slowly, narrowing her eyes. She begins to remove all of her outer layers—the scarf around her neck, her pitch black peacoat, peeling off her gloves and letting her honey blonde hair out of her hand-knitted hat. She throws everything on Darcy’s bed, watching her with her eyebrows raised, expectantly. “What is it, Darcy?”

“The article is getting published,” Darcy says, and a grin splits Emily’s face. She tells Emily all about Hermione’s offer, and her idea to have Rita Skeeter interview Harry for _The Quibbler_. “I need you to get that article back, Emily. I need you to stop it from getting published. I need you to—if it comes down to it—just completely _destroy_ the article before Rita fucks it up.”

Emily falters. “But why would you want to stop it from getting published?” And then, sounding slightly affronted, her voice a little shriller, “And you should have just given me the finished article to begin with!”

“Emily, this is serious,” Darcy urges, beginning to pace back and forth. “I never should have let you and Gemma talk me into this. The werewolves are going to see this and be insulted, and you know who they’re going to take it out on.” After a heavy pause, Darcy stops moving, looking directly into Emily’s face. “He’s going back. Dumbledore’s going to send him back to the werewolves, and Dumbledore knows about the article. He knows it’s getting published and it’s like he doesn’t even care what could happen to Remus…because of _me_.”

But Emily, upon hearing about Dumbledore already knowing about the article, does not seem discouraged. “If Dumbledore doesn’t see a problem with sending Lupin back, then maybe we shouldn’t have to worry so much,” she says quickly, raising a good point, but not thoroughly convincing Darcy. “If the article was such a danger to him, then Dumbledore would keep him here, right?”

“Maybe,” Darcy frowns, her heart racing. “But when I spoke to them both—I mean, they’re both of a mind that there are things worth dying for.” She paces restlessly again, looking down at her feet, unable to think straight. “Why does he have to be like that? Why does Remus have to be so _stupid_ and noble and—”

“Because he was a Gryffindor, and everyone knows that Gryffindors are both stupid _and_ noble,” comes Gemma’s voice from the other side of the locked door. Both Darcy and Emily jump, but Darcy hurried to unlock the bedroom door, allowing Gemma entry. She’s still in her St Mungo’s robes, clearly exhausted, but looking keen to discuss the topic at hand. Gemma closes the door behind her, sighing loudly and dramatically. “Try sending _me_ to the werewolves. You couldn’t pay me enough to go.”

“And we would all applaud your Slytherin cowardice,” Emily retorts quickly, moving her things from the bed to allow Gemma a place to lie down.

“Forgive me for wanting to live past forty,” Gemma says, bored. She falls back onto the bed and sighs, spreading out overtop of the blankets. “Here’s what I say—I say you tell him what you’ve done, Darcy, and he can make his own decision. If he still wants to go, then so be it. He knows what could happen.”

“What _I’ve_ done?” Darcy hisses, her heart sinking into her stomach. “No—no, no, no—you don’t get to push all of this on me. You two are a part of this, too.” She rubs at her face, listening soft, girlish laughter floating up the stairs. It makes Darcy’s stomach clench painfully. “I can’t do this to him. I—I got carried away with the idea of speaking out, of fighting back against Umbridge, and I can’t—I have to get this article back from Rita Skeeter. Emily, please—”

“What? No!” Emily protests. “Darcy, that article was _really_ good when I read it last. Not everyone is going to like every single thing you publish. That’s like, the first thing they told me at the _Prophet_.”

“They probably meant not everyone would appreciate your piece ranking the top ten Quidditch players in Britain,” Darcy snaps, and Emily huffs impatiently, blushing and clearly offended. “Not a piece defending werewolf rights and encouraging their integration into society to be offered the same opportunities as those not inflicted with lycanthropy. I’m sure that’s what they meant.”

“You can’t know that for sure,” Emily answers, shrugging her shoulders innocently, infuriating Darcy. When she catches sight of the annoyed look on Darcy’s face, she inhales deeply and puts her hands on her hips. “I think maybe it’s time to spill. It won’t be a secret forever, and Lupin would probably want to hear it from you instead of finding out from someone else.”

Darcy looks hopefully to Gemma, still half-asleep on the bed. “Gemma—”

“No,” Gemma says immediately, not even bothering to open her eyes. “ _You_ need to tell him, Darcy.”

“If it makes you feel better, Gemma and I will stand behind you looking pretty while you tell him,” Emily smiles. “You still have time, you know. The article likely isn’t going to be published until at least next month, and who knows when Lupin’s leaving again.”

Sensing defeat, Darcy privately wonders if she could possibly put this off another weekend. The last thing she wants is to leave Grimmauld Place on bad terms with Lupin, not knowing if she’ll see him again. Though there is a chance he won’t be angry with her. Maybe he’d laugh at the sight of her looking so distressed, kiss her forehead to reassure her, kiss her lips to let her know all is forgiven, smile sadly at her to show his appreciation. The one thing she is certain of is that she need not fear being hurt, and that thought is far more comforting than it has any right to be.

Darcy and Emily sneak back downstairs, leaving Gemma to sleep before the Order meeting scheduled for this afternoon. Lupin, Sirius, and Tonks have migrated to the kitchen, and while Emily doesn’t seem ready to force Darcy to tell him anything, she knows that she must. But it’s hard to convince herself to just do it when Lupin is smiling so kindly at her, walking quickly over to her side and placing a hand on the small of her back, holding her to him. To have him back—to have him making public gestures again (even if they’re small ones), excites her and makes her stomach flutter violently. She doesn’t want it to end because of a stupid decision she’d made—a stupid thing she’d done because she had been impulsive and reckless. The words ring in her head, echo in her ears.

“Do you want something to eat, Darcy?” Lupin asks quietly, looking down at her while Tonks volunteers Emily to get them all lunch.

“No,” Darcy replies, unable to look him in the face. She wriggles out of his hold, slipping out of the kitchen and letting her feet take her to the drawing room. She isn’t surprised to hear Lupin following her, heavy footsteps on the dusty hardwood flooring, but it slightly irritates her. When Lupin follows her into the drawing room, Darcy tells him to close the door, and he does almost excitedly. She lights a fire in the hearth, tucking her wand away in her back pocket. “Tonks was really happy to see you back, wasn’t she?”

Lupin chuckles. “Are you jealous?” he asks quietly, moving closer to her and kissing her neck before standing up straight again, pressing the front of his body lightly against her own, his hands jumping to Darcy’s shoulders. “You shouldn’t be.”

Darcy turns abruptly, and his hands release her shoulders. “I should tell you something.”

Noticing the pained expression on her face, Lupin frowns. “All right.”

She shifts uncomfortably on her feet. _Just say it. Just get it over with now_. “You’re going to hate me.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and Darcy is sure Lupin is going over every possible scenario in his head as to what could possibly make her say that. “I could never hate you, Darcy.”

“You will.”

“Just tell me what it is,” he insists urgently, his brow furrowed. Lupin makes a grab for her hands, but Darcy pulls away before he can take them, no matter how badly she wants him to.

“Well, it’s just that—I’ve been working on something now for quite a while, and—well, it’s—I wrote an article—and Hermione’s able to have it published in _The Quibbler_ , but it’s—well, it’s an opinion piece, I suppose, that’s, er—well, calling for equal rights for werewolves, and it will probably be in next month’s edition and I…I wanted to tell you before...” Darcy trails off at the blank look on Lupin’s face. She expects him to speak right away, to backtrack or laugh in amusement or shout at her, but he does none of these things. He doesn’t even open his mouth. “Please say something.”

“What do you want me to say?” Lupin scoffs, and he runs a hand through his hair, making him look ridiculous when he lowers it back to his side. “Darcy, are you out of your _goddamn_ mind? What were you _thinking_?”

Tears immediately well up in her eyes. “I—I was thinking of you,” she confesses weakly, looking away to avoid the anger in his face. “When Umbridge put out the proposal, I was so angry—”

“You’ve been working on this since then?” Lupin growls under his breath, eyes darting about the room as he thinks. When his eyes meet Darcy’s again, they’re narrowed in suspicion. “This has Emily written all over it.”

“What?” Darcy asks quickly, too quickly.

Lupin holds his hands clasped in front of his face, as if praying for patience. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them and speaks again, his voice is slightly calmer. “Darcy, this is madness,” he says, “but what could have possibly possessed you to do something so incredibly _stupid_?”

Darcy stammers stupidly, flushing with embarrassment. She holds her hand behind her back, looking down at her feet. “I thought it was quite good,” she replies. “I worked very hard on it.”

“And what exactly does the article say?” His tone is accusing, and Darcy can’t meet his eyes.

“It said…it calls for integration into society again, and equal rights and opportunities, unbiased education about the struggle that werewolves have gone through,” Darcy answers, starting to cry, feeling so small and so shamed in his shadow. “I didn’t mention you at all, I swear it.”

“I don’t care if you mentioned me,” Lupin snaps. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you have any idea the danger you’ve put yourself in?”

“I—”

“And Hermione got it published for you?” His temper is rising now, and bile burns Darcy’s throat. Lupin traces his teeth with his tongue, shaking his head and laughing mirthlessly. “I _will_ be having words with that girl, Darcy, I promise you that. Encouraging you to do something so reckless—what was she thinking?”

“It wasn’t Hermione’s fault,” Darcy rasps, glancing up quick before looking away again. “She tried to convince me not to do it, but—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he hisses. “Do you have any idea what you have done? I spent six long, lonely, painful weeks trying to gain a community’s trust, and you have single-handedly _destroyed_ that trust with this article of yours. You have lost us all chance of recruiting the werewolves, you have put your job at stake, you have ruined your reputation, you run the chance of being thrown in Azkaban, you have put yourself at risk of attack—how do you think I would feel if you were bitten? If you were killed?”

Darcy wipes her eyes, hardly able to see him through the tears. “I’m sorry,” she rasps. “I just wanted to help.”

“Goddamnit, Darcy—why can’t you just do as you’re told?” Lupin shouts, making Darcy flinch. “Why do you feel the need to prove yourself by doing something so stupid? If the Order needed an article written, Dumbledore would have told you so. This is exactly why you’re not a part of the Order. This is why—” He stops suddenly at the frightened expression on Darcy’s face, attempting to calm down again. “Darcy, I appreciate you wanting to help, I really do. But you’ve put yourself in danger, and if anything happens to you—”

Darcy feels half a child again, shaking like a leaf in front of him, crying silently with her arms wrapped around herself, unable to look him in the face.

Lupin holds his hands out, reluctant to touch her. “Darcy,” he says, suddenly soft and gentle. “Darcy, please don’t think I would ever hurt you. You know I would never hurt you.”

She clears her throat feebly, lifting her head to look at him, feeling it’s better not to remind him of the scars on her shoulder. Lupin’s hands fall to his sides again. “I know.”

He nods curtly. “Prepare to reap the consequences of your actions,” he finishes, his voice businesslike and firm again. “Perhaps this is a lesson you should learn now, before you seize the opportunity to do something foolish on a larger scale.”

“I’m sorry,” Darcy breathes, wiping her cheeks. “I told you, I just wanted to help.”

“When your help is needed, you will be asked for it. But until then, you will forget all this madness about werewolves, and you will do as you’re told—finish out the year with Severus without incident. That is your job.”

From outside the drawing room, Darcy can hear several people shuffling around, talking quietly. “Okay.”

“I know you’re frustrated, Darcy. I know that you’re unhappy with your current situation, but you have to trust Dumbledore,” he frowns, pursing his lips and waiting for a reaction. “You will not be treated kindly because of this article. They will shame you, they will mock you, they will hate you.”

“I’m not ashamed of what I’ve written,” Darcy says, finally finding her voice again. It’s still raspy and hoarse, but at least her tears have slowed. “Everything I wrote in that article, I meant, and I stand behind it. I’m not afraid to stand up for what is right. I’m not afraid to stand up for you.”

“I never asked you to stand up for me,” Lupin says quietly. “I never asked you to retaliate. Do you think I haven’t heard things like that all of my life? Do you think I haven’t heard worse than that before?”

“It was sickening,” Darcy protests, shaking her head. “I would never let them do that to you—”

“You don’t have the power to do _anything_ about it!” Lupin cuts across her, his voice drowning her out completely. He draws himself up to his full height. “You can’t change the way people see werewolves—you can’t change the way people see _me_. And because you _can’t_ change anything, you will do _nothing_. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” As her tears stop flowing altogether, Darcy swallows the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry.”

She reaches out to take his hands, wanting to kiss him over and over in apology, wrap her arms around him to let him know she’s sorry, but Lupin shakes his head, gives her an apologetic look, and leaves her standing in the drawing room alone, his voice soon joining the hushed murmurs in the hallway moving towards the kitchen.

* * *

“What are _you_ doing here?”

Snape slips into her bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. He looks her over for a moment, taking in her puffy eyes and blotchy cheeks, curled up on her bed with the blankets pulled up to her chin. As he takes another step closer to her, Darcy sighs, rolling over and turning her back on him.

“I’m sure Remus told you what I’ve done,” she says, too tired to snap at him. “How stupid I am for wanting to stand up for what’s right.”

“Something like that,” Snape replies, making Darcy cry again.

“Come to insult me, then?” Darcy asks, wishing she’d just shut up. If Snape hasn’t said anything cruel now, she’s sure he isn’t going to at all. “Call me stupid and berate me for what I’ve done? Go on. Nothing you say can hurt me worse than what Remus said.”

“I didn’t come here to say anything about what you’ve done.” Snape looks around the bedroom quickly, eyes lingering on the framed photographs on the nightstand and atop her dresser. “Pack your things, Darcy. I’m taking you back to Hogwarts.”

“I still have hours,” Darcy counters, flipping over to give him an incredulous look. “Come back for me at nine, just like always.”

“If you want to wallow in misery, you can do that at Hogwarts, too.” Snape clicks his tongue impatiently, pulling his wand out of his cloak and waving it once. Immediately, all of Darcy’s things littered on the ground fly towards her open bag sitting in the corner. Her clothes fold themselves, her books stack neatly on top of the clothes in the bag, her camera follows, and Snape makes a small noise of approval as the essays she’d been working on are the last to be packed away carefully. Snape puts his wand away and stoops to pick up her bag, slinging it over his shoulders. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

“What is it?” Darcy asks, sitting up slowly, pushing the blankets off her. She narrows her eyes at him, curious, her heart throbbing painfully. “Are you going to tell me what happened between you and my mother?”

Snape hesitates, looking as if he would rather do anything but that. “I’m going to show you.”

Darcy pauses for a moment. She’s very sure she wants to know now what had happened all those years ago, but the thought of another excursion into the Pensieve frightens her slightly. “Just tell me,” she says quietly, but Snape shows no signs of submitting or obliging her.

“Come, Darcy.” Snape’s voice is soft and low and surprisingly gentle, and he beckons her forward. Darcy, the curiosity taking over, slides from her bed and throws a sweater over her head, slips boots on her feet, and she reaches for her bag, still hanging from Snape’s shoulder, but he shakes his head. “I’ve got it. Let’s go.”

“Can I say goodbye to Gemma and Emily?”

Snape nods and opens the door, holding it open for her. With a jittery feeling, her nerves jangling, Darcy walks slowly down the stairs as opposed to her gracefully jumping down two or three steps at a time. Most of the Order is still congregated in the kitchen when she reaches it, and Lupin dutifully avoids her eyes when she tries to smile weakly at him from across the table. Everyone, it seems, does their best to avoid her eyes except for Sirius, Gemma, Emily, Tonks, and—to Darcy’s surprise—Professor McGonagall, who looks upset nonetheless and almost apologetic. Dumbledore is nowhere to be found, and Darcy is grateful for that much, at least.

Gemma and Emily push past everyone, whose voices have lowered upon Darcy’s entering the room. With Snape hovering at her shoulder, Emily looks slightly nervous about taking Darcy by the hand. “Could we borrow her for a moment? Er—Professor?”

“Quickly,” Snape says, pushing Darcy gently towards her friends.

Once the three of them are safely out of view and earshot of the others, halfway up a set of stairs and far enough away from Mrs. Black to speak at a normal level, Emily lets out a low whistle. “He really gave it to me,” she murmurs, rolling her eyes. “Stood there and claimed that I forced you into this, scolded me in front of the entire Order until Dumbledore told him to stop.”

“I’m sorry,” Darcy frowns. “I didn’t mean to get you involved. I didn’t tell him either of you had anything to do with this.”

“You know he’s mad because you’ve only now just told him,” Gemma says, looking irritable, but certainly not angry.

“I think there’s a laundry list of reasons why he’s mad,” Emily retorts in a voice as soft as a hiss. She looks at Gemma and rolls her eyes again. “I just had them all shouted into my face, in case you missed it.” She holds out her hand, counting the reasons off on her fingers. “He’s angry that I apparently convinced Darcy this was at all a good idea, angry because Darcy did this without anyone’s permission, angry because Darcy’s put herself in danger—”

“Anyway,” Gemma says, examining her fingernails closely, cutting across Emily and earning herself a dangerous look. “Dumbledore isn’t sending him back just yet.”

“Should you be telling her this?” Emily asks, looking mildly uncomfortable, meeting Darcy’s eyes for a split second.

“Not like it’s a secret, is it?” Gemma shrugs, looking up at Emily over her nails. “It’ll be obvious he’s not going when Darcy comes back the next few weekends and he’s still here. But like I was saying—Dumbledore doesn’t want to send him back yet, for fear of retaliation.”

Darcy holds her face in her eyes, not wanting to start crying again. The thought of the werewolves being so offended by her article (something she struggles with, considering her article had said nothing insulting, she thinks) that they would take it out on Lupin makes her sick. The last thing she wants is for anything to happen to him, to this man she loves so much, and have it be her fault. “I’m sorry,” she cries softly, and both Gemma and Emily jump to comfort her, long fingernails raking through her hair, a hand upon her back. “I didn’t mean to endanger him, or—or—”

“Oh, Darcy,” Gemma replies soothingly. “Dumbledore’s not keeping him here for his own safety.”

“Lupin made it quite clear he’d be willing to go back for as long as it takes this time,” Emily adds, rubbing Darcy’s back. “He wanted to go right away, to continue to build their trust, to repair the fracture when the article is published, he said. But Dumbledore denied him his request for a different reason.”

“What other reason?” Darcy asks, lifting her face from her damp hands. “Surely Dumbledore recognizes the danger I’ve put Remus in if he were to go back? Why didn’t I see it before? How could I have been so stupid?”

“You’re not stupid,” Emily says again in a steady tone. “That article is good, and they’ll all see when it’s published.”

“Dumbledore thinks the werewolves may use him to get to you,” Gemma confesses, leaning back against the stair and crossing her arms over her chest. She shares a knowing look with Emily before continuing. “He’s afraid that, if Lupin goes back, the werewolves will use him as bait to get their hands on you, to keep you as a hostage or to turn you.”

“And Lupin said that he doesn’t care what happens to him,” Emily continues, very matter-of-factly. “He said that he’d make sure you were well aware you weren’t to go after him, no matter what the werewolves say or do.”

“How could he think I would just leave him to die?” Darcy scoffs, her heart aching at the thought.

“Well, that’s exactly what Dumbledore said,” Gemma explains. “He said that you’re reckless and also loving to a fault, and if you thought Lupin was in trouble or if his life was at risk, you’d drop everything to save him.”

It annoys Darcy that Dumbledore was so right about her. “That’s not being reckless,” she argues, offended. “It’s being loyal. I love him, and I won’t allow Dumbledore to—to—”

“Throw him to the wolves?” Gemma finishes for her. Darcy nods slightly in return, shrugging her shoulders. “I hope he didn’t give you too hard of a time. But you know me—if he did, I’ll make sure he doesn’t hear the end of it.”

Darcy sighs. “He was so happy to see me this weekend,” she whispers, not wanting anyone to overhear her. “He kissed me like he used to. And now he wants nothing to do with me again.”

“Darcy, time to go.”

Darcy looks over her shoulder to see Snape tapping his watch, pulling on the gloves she’d gotten him for Christmas. It makes her want to smile, but she doesn’t have the energy to. Blushing and avoiding eye contact with both of her friends, she fixes her gaze upon her shoes. “I’ll see you next weekend maybe.”

“Ten more seconds, Professor Snape,” Emily pleads.

Darcy looks and Snape, his mouth a thin line of impatience. “I’ll be at the door,” he tells her.

As soon as he disappears from view again, Emily plunges on in a quiet voice. “He defended you, you know. Snape.” She casts an anxious look where Snape had just been standing. “He said this wouldn’t have happened if the Order had just let you do something helpful instead of keeping things from you and keeping you at Hogwarts.”

“He did?” Darcy asks, feeling a rush of affection for Snape.

“Lupin didn’t like it,” Gemma snickers. “You know how he is. I thought he was going to hex Snape for a few minutes.”

Darcy gets to her feet with a resigned sigh. “I should go,” she says. “Before Snape hexes me for being late.”

“Okay. I’ll stop by next weekend.” Emily smiles weakly, but doesn’t get to her feet to walk Darcy out. She and Gemma stay put, seated upon the stairs, watching Darcy as she leaves them.

Darcy makes a stop in the kitchen before leaving, seeking out her godfather to give him a hug and a kiss. While the kitchen has emptied for the most part, a few people have stayed behind—Lupin watches their interaction until he realizes Darcy has noticed; Tonks and Kingsley are poring over a schedule of sorts, talking in murmurs; Mundungus is clearly waiting for a word with Sirius, bouncing impatiently on his feet as Darcy takes her time.

“Leaving so soon?” Sirius asks with a slight frown, kissing her forehead when she wraps her arms around his middle. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” she lies, retracting her arms from around him. “I’m fine.”

Sirius gives her a wary look, but nods all the same. “All right. I’ll see you next weekend. Love you, kid. Give my best to Harry.”

Darcy smiles, closing her eyes as he kisses her head again.

Snape is, indeed, waiting by the front door for her when she finally makes her way to him. Anxiety begins to settle deep in her bones again, the thought of finally finding out this mystery somewhat exciting. But Darcy can’t imagine anything good will come from this experience, even if it gives Darcy some answers. But answers are this point are what she wants, and to find out the answer to one of the burning questions she’s been harboring for months now is more appealing than it should be.

Darcy takes Snape’s hand wordlessly as they step just outside the door, and he brings her back to the grounds of Hogwarts, where the grass is wet and the sun is finally starting to go down, casting the lawn in shades of reds and yellows and oranges. Releasing Snape’s hand to stretch, Darcy allows the chill, refreshing February air hit her full in the face. The village of Hogsmeade, some ways away off in the near distance, looks cozy and comfortable, and smoke rises from several chimneys to hang above the many houses. Darcy’s stomach rumbles loudly as she pictures the inside of The Three Broomsticks, warm and buzzing with conversation, smelling of cinnamon and honeyed mead and spiced wine and stale smoke.

“I’m hungry,” she says suddenly, as Snape takes his first step towards the castle. “Can we get some food?”

“No,” Snape answers, looking over his shoulder and sighing heavily at the sight of Darcy’s disappointed look. When she still doesn’t move, Snape sweeps behind her, touching her shoulders and urging her forward. “We can have dinner tomorrow night, if you’d like.”

“It’s fine.” Darcy begins to walk, letting her stomach continue to growl. Snape resumes his place at her side, and surprising even herself, Darcy hooks her arm around his, not saying another word until they’ve reached the entrance hall.

Snape holds out her bag for her, and Darcy takes it. “Go put your things away and change into something clean. You smell like smoke. Then come down to my office, understood?”

Darcy nods, hurrying up to her room. The woman in the portrait is sleeping when she approaches, but wakes quickly enough, smiling at her with that warm, maternal smile. “Good to see you, Darcy Potter. What color was your first pet?”

“Black, with a white face,” she answers, unable to keep her smile at bay at the thought of Sirius and Lupin coercing a young kitten into a box for Darcy for Christmas. She smiles wider at the thought of James and Lily’s unsuspecting faces upon seeing their daughter pull a live kitten from a box. But upon entering her room, her smile fades instantly.

Max soars to her immediately from the bedroom, circling her head and hooting softly as Darcy takes in the state of her place. The papers she had lying on the table, essays and homework, are ruffled and out of place. Her three favorite quills are scattered, the corked ink bottle on its side. The books on the shelves seem to have been moved, as well, removed and replaced. Darcy turns around and pokes her head out of the portrait hole.

“Um, excuse me?”

The woman smiles, rocking her sleeping baby in her arms. “Yes?”

“Er—did you let anyone in while I was gone?”

“Of course,” the woman answers with a small smile. Darcy’s heart sinks momentarily. “Hermione Granger came by shortly after you’d left. She didn’t stay for very long.”

“Oh...thanks.” Darcy closes the door behind her again, thinking hard. Hermione wouldn’t have gone through her things…maybe she’d seen a book that looked interesting and pulled it off the shelf…but Hermione would have had the decency to put it away neatly, or she would have taken it and left a note or something to let Darcy know she had taken it…

With Max perched upon her right shoulder, Darcy hurries to her bedroom, and her worst fear is confirmed. The owl takes off, wings spread, floating throughout the room. The drawer of her nightstand isn’t closed all the way, the blankets on her bed have been disturbed and untucked as if someone had lifted the mattress. She opens her dresser drawer quickly, throwing her underwear to the side and unsure whether or not to be relieved there’s nothing there. Surely Hermione had taken it—surely the woman in her portrait would have noticed if Hermione had been distressed. Darcy dives to her knees at the foot of her bed, reaching underneath for the loose floorboard. She lifts it, exhaling loudly in relief when she sees that all of her notes and early drafts of the article are still there. Replacing the floorboard, Darcy then looks to her writing desk, where it’s clear it has been searched. The contents inside of the drawer have been messed around, her pack of cigarettes left open, her quills no longer organized, the bottles of ink knocked over and one of them leaking in the drawer.

She breathes heavily, her meeting with Snape the last thing on her mind. But she needs to tell someone—she needs to tell Snape—that her room had been broken into, that her room had been searched. If only Max could talk…she looks up at her owl, seated on the top of her wardrobe. The window, always left slightly open for Max to come and go as he pleases, is still open. Darcy crosses the room and looks down. No one could have climbed up—she’s far too high up for that—but they could have flown in using a broomstick. Darcy tries to imagine Umbridge on a broomstick, both legs thrown over one side. It just doesn’t seem likely…

And then, she runs back out of her bedroom, kneeling before the fireplace. There are no logs inside of it, but a fresh layer of ashes, as if someone had lit a fire just yesterday. Darcy touches it with the tips of her index and middle fingers, holding it up to her face, watching it glitter. Heart thundering dangerously fast, Darcy goes to clean it, but hesitates. Her bag is still on the sofa, and she withdraws her camera from inside, aiming it at the hearth and taking a picture. Feeling this is probably the best thing she could possibly do, she takes a picture of everything that has been disturbed—the things on her table, her bed, her dresser, her desk. And when she finishes, she tucks them all into her pocket, cleans up the mess the intruder has left, and leaves her room.

Darcy runs down to the dungeons, heart leaping in her throat. Umbridge had gone through her things, and with a lurch in her stomach, Darcy wonders what would have happened had she not brought all of her incriminating things to Grimmauld Place. All she knows it that she has to tell Snape, she has to show him the pictures—he’ll know what to do, and if he doesn’t, then he’ll know who to tell, which will likely be Dumbledore. She has pictures, though—evidence that her private room had been searched without her permission, and doesn’t that count for something?

A few students greet her in the corridors, but she doesn’t linger to speak with them beyond a hurried ‘hey’. She leaps down the moving staircase as it tries to make her take the longest route possible, continuing her journey down to the dungeons. When Darcy reaches Snape’s office, she knocks furiously, calling out for him with her cheek pressed against the door.

“Professor Snape!” she hisses, but there’s no answering call from him, no shuffling of footsteps or ruffling of papers. “Professor Snape, it’s me!”

But after two minutes of no answer, Darcy sighs heavily, placing a hand on the doorknob to find it’s not even locked. This gives her pause, and she lets herself in to find Snape isn’t even waiting inside. His office is empty, save for the Pensieve by his desk. Darcy looks around, waiting for a trap to spring, but when nothing happens, she closes the door and makes sure to lock it.

_He’s going to make me do this alone_ , she thinks, glancing warily at the swirling contents inside the Pensieve. Darcy had thought—or maybe hoped—that Snape would accompany her this time into his own memory, but it seems that is not the case. This partially intrigues her, yet also makes her suspicious. Why wouldn’t Snape want to go into his own memory? How could it be any worse than what they’d seen in Darcy’s?

She takes a step nearer the Pensieve, suddenly remembering the photographs in her pocket. Darcy shakes her head. The memory can wait—she needs to find Snape, needs to tell him what happened, needs to show him what she’d found upon entering her room. But her feet take her closer to the Pensieve, as if in a trance. She knows there is something very ominous about this scene—about Snape leaving the Pensieve here without bothering to offer her an explanation. She almost feels as if she shouldn’t be doing this, but Snape had allowed her to come in by leaving the door unlocked—he had deliberately left his memories in the Pensieve for Darcy to see.

Feeling very conflicted, Darcy reaches in her pocket to feel the photographs, crumpled together. The memory certainly can’t be too long…by the time she finishes and finds Professor Snape, it will be all right. It’s not like Umbridge could have found anything incriminating because she’d scoured her room for things and had Hermione double check afterwards. She takes another step forward, looking over her shoulder. The hair on the back of her neck stands up, and it feels as if someone is watching her, but there’s no one else in the room—it’s only her and the memory.

With a feeling of reckless abandon, Darcy plunges her face into the cool memories, feeling herself being sucked into that infinite, blinding, suffocating darkness. She screams as it presses in on all sides, and then it’s gone, and Darcy is left blinking in the bright sunlight, her feet on solid ground.

Looking around, Darcy sees Hogwarts looming tall and foreboding up the sloping grounds. Surrounded by thick bushes, Darcy turns to find who is unmistakably Snape, looking very closely at a piece of parchment. He can’t be much older than Harry, but at the same time, there’s something about him that makes him seem much older. Snape’s hair is still dark, lank, and greasy, framing his face and in desperate need of a wash. His skin is either slightly damp with sweat, or oily, but there’s a healthy flush to his cheeks that he lacks now, as if growing up has sucked the color right out of him. She kneels beside him, looking over his shoulder at the parchment he’s immersed in.

_Ordinary Wizarding Level Exam Questions  
Defense Against the Dark Arts_

So Snape can’t be older than sixteen, she thinks, looking around for another familiar face. And then she sees them, four of them seated underneath a beech tree, a beech tree that she’d spent many warm days under with her own friends, taking refuge from the baking sun when not swimming in the lake. Darcy gets back to her feet, wondering if the memory will allow her to wander so far from Snape. After all, they aren’t that far, and she desperately wants to see them up close. Darcy tests the memory’s limits, taking one step and waiting for something to happen. When nothing does, she takes another, and then another, until she’s standing in front of four young boys, younger than she is now. It’s an odd sight, but an exciting one, and her heart flutters at the sight of them.

Darcy kneels in front of a dark haired boy, catching and releasing a Golden Snitch before it escapes his reach. At this age, he looks almost exactly like Harry, his hair sticking up in the back, glasses settled perfectly on the bridge of his long nose. Harry’s mouth is the same, his thin face, but there are parts of James Darcy recognizes as her own. The sharp angles of his jaw, his jutting cheekbones and long, straight nose. The sight of her father takes her breath away and she wishes she could speak to him, interact with him. Is he thinking of the baby girl back home even now? Is he missing her, waiting for the exams to end to return to her? To cuddle her in his arms? To press kisses to her face and let her fall asleep against her chest?

Beside him is Sirius—even at sixteen, handsome in a way Darcy associates with Gemma. Haughty and arrogant, Sirius seems to know he’s good looking, flicking his neck to get his dark hair out of his eyes. It’s shorter than it is now, but well groomed, all perfectly tamed, loose waves. He watches James, bored, every so often scanning the grounds, eyes following students walking past.

Darcy scrambles over to sixteen-year-old Lupin, his face hidden behind a book. Even though she’s seen photographs of Lupin as a boy, it’s still odd to see him without any sign of aging. There is no gray in his shaggy hair yet, and his face is either very cleanly, expertly shaven or he has yet to grow facial hair at all. The scars on his face are weaker, less violent, a light pink that makes them slightly less pronounced. But he’s handsome—handsome enough that Darcy thinks, if she had gone to school with him, she might have went after him.

As much as Darcy doesn’t want to look at the fourth boy under the beech tree, she forces herself to. She looks at this boy, so like Neville (which she thinks a real shame, since she likes Neville very much), so in awe of James’ wonderful catches as the Snitch flits around their heads. Darcy’s face is close to his, but Peter doesn’t look at her, doesn’t even seem to know she’s there at all—which, of course, she isn’t really. She wonders if Peter has been flirting with the Dark Arts already, wonders if he still considers these three boys—James, Sirius, and Remus—true friends.

Darcy looks over her shoulder again at Snape, half-hidden behind the bushes, seemingly not noticing there’s an entire world around him, so focused on his paper. Reluctantly, wanting to kiss each of her three boys on the cheek just for being them, just for being so cute, just for loving her in the future, Darcy pulls herself away from them and returns to Snape. He sits for a few minutes more with Darcy seated at his side, scouring the grounds again, watching as students laugh and grin together, celebrating the end of another year. A few girls are seated at the edge of the lake, kicking their feet in the water as the giant squid raises one of its massive tentacles before disappearing again within moments.

After a few minutes of silence, Darcy half-forgetting she’s in a memory, Snape puts his parchment away, stuffing it in his bag and getting to his feet. Darcy mimics him, reaching for his arm out of habit as he begins to walk quickly across the grounds before forgetting she can’t touch him. Feeling slightly remorseful that they aren’t going to be around her father and his friends any longer, Darcy feels she’s spoken far too soon when she hears a voice ringing in her ears call, “All right, Snivellus?”

Both Darcy and Snape whirl around. Snape’s wand is already drawn, almost as if having expected an attack, and before Darcy can register how strange it is to hear her father’s voice (having absolutely no memory of what he even sounded like), James speaks again, now standing very close to them with Sirius at his side. “ _Expelliarmus_!” James shouts, and Snape’s wand flies into the air, arcing behind the both of them and in the grass. Still pointing his own wand at Snape, he flicks it again. “ _Impedimenta_.”

Horrified, wishing she had the chance to scold her own father and Sirius, standing shoulder to shoulder with James and laughing. Darcy kneels in the grass beside Snape, struggling alone against invisible bonds amid a circle of onlookers. She wonders why no one comes to his aid, why people are laughing at someone who has done nothing wrong—she wishes she could do something to help him, but everytime she tries to touch Snape, panting beside her on the ground, her fingers go right through him as if he is nothing more than a ghost.

Darcy looks up again towards the beech tree, just a little ways away from them, hoping Lupin will come and put a stop to this—after all, he had been a _prefect_ …he could end this now and get it over with. But he does nothing, focusing on the book in his hands and trying very hard to ignore what is happening just feet from him. Anger stirs in Darcy’s chest as she looks back down at Snape, his cheeks turning red.

“How’d the exam go, Snivelly?” James asks, cocking an eyebrow and fussing with his hair, making it messier than ever.

Sirius tilts his head back, letting out a bark of laughter that shakes his hair. “I was watching him. His nose was touching the parchment. There’ll be great grease marks all over it, they won’t be able to read a word.”

Darcy looks quickly at Sirius, feeling another great surge of anger. No one is helping Snape, not a single person is standing up for him, calling for an end to it. Part of her wishes Lupin would stand up and defend Snape, but the other part of her knows he is not coming, that he is not going to even acknowledge what his friends are doing, what her father is doing. No one is going to come to his aid, and as Snape crawls painfully slowly towards his wand, swearing loudly, and as James shouts, “ _Scourgify_!” and pink bubbles issue from Snape’s mouth, choking him, gagging him, Darcy almost decides she doesn’t want to see anymore. She understands why Snape has chosen to forgo this particular journey into the Pensieve with her, and she closes her eyes, feeling sick to her stomach, screwing up her face in concentration, trying to figure out how to pull out of the memory when someone else yells, a girl.

“Leave him _alone_!”

Darcy’s eyes snap open. She _knows_ that voice. And there she is—Lily, her mother, the same red hair, the same green eyes. Her hair is shorter than Darcy’s, just brushing her shoulders, and when she looks around at James again, he looks pleased with himself that Lily has come closer. He runs a hand through his hair, grinning.

“All right, Evans?”

“Leave him alone,” Lily says again. “What’s he done to you?”

“Motherhood has made you soft, Evans,” James shrugs, and Darcy’s stomach knots when she sees her mother’s face turn red. _Is she ashamed of me_? “It’s not so much what he’s done, more the fact that he _exists_ , if you know what I mean.”

The people surrounding them all laugh, and Darcy feels the need to be violently sick. Lily doesn’t laugh, however, and neither does Lupin, still sitting by the tree with his book. “You think you’re funny,” Lily snaps. “But you’re just a bullying, arrogant toerag. Leave him alone, Potter.”

This sentiment makes Darcy freeze. Why are they arguing? Why are they talking to each other like they hate each other? Everytime Lupin had spoken of her mother and father, it was always as if they were in love. They had spent Christmases together, and breaks from school together—had that only been because of Darcy?

“I will if you go out with me, Evans,” James grins cheekily, a smile that Darcy has seen on her own face before. He runs a hand through his hair again. “A _proper_ date, Evans, and I’ll never lay a hand on old Snivelly again.”

Darcy’s heart is beating fit to burst, she can hear it pounding in her ears. Snape is crawling towards his wand now, soap suds still spilling from his mouth onto the grass, but no one seems to be paying him any attention.

“Is this the example you want to set?” Lily asks him heatedly. “This is the father you’re going to be?”

James only raises his eyebrows, and Darcy imagines Lily’s words have stung, because it’s so easy to read James’ face—so easy to read a face that is her own.

Sirius’ eyes flick towards Snape for a moment to find him having finally reached his wand. “OY!”

Snape holds his wand out before James has time to act. There’s a flash of bright, white light and Darcy sees that Snape’s spell has struck James in the face; a small gash bleeds heavily onto his robes, and in an instant, another flash of light comes from James’ wand and Snape is hanging upside down in the air, dangling by his ankles by some invisible force. Darcy reaches for Snape again as his robes fall over his head, revealing his skinny, white legs and a pair of graying underwear. Her hands fall through Snape’s and she starts to cry, sinking to her knees, wishing she was able to help, the laughter and jeering seemingly ten times louder than normal.

“Let him down!” Lily shouts.

“Certainly,” James replies politely, and within an instant, Snape falls to the ground with a grunt, crumpling beside Darcy, flushed and panting. “ _Petrificus Totalus_!”

As Snape suddenly stills, rigid and stiff, Lily rounds on James again, furious. “Leave him alone!”

James lets out a resigned and frustrated sigh. “Evans, don’t make me hex you.”

“Take the curse off him, then!”

James clenches his jaw, then points his wand at Snape again, uttering the countercurse. “There,” James growls, watching Snape with distaste as he pushes himself finally to his feet. “Lucky Evans was here to save you, Snivellus.”

“I don’t need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!”

A hush settles over the crowd, and Darcy looks into Snape’s face as if expecting him to look back. She doesn’t know what to say, or how to react. She had just watched her father do terrible things to Snape for no reason other than for something to do, yet…something about the way Snape spits the foul word at her mother disgusts her.

“Fine,” comes Lily’s voice. “I won’t bother in future. And I’d wash your pants if I were you, _Snivellus_.”

“Apologize!” James roars from behind Darcy. But Darcy can’t look away from Snape, who looks as though he’s now just realized what he’s said, but doesn’t want to go back on it. “Apologize to Evans, _now_!”

“I don’t want _you_ to make him apologize!” Lily retorts. “You’re just as bad as he is.”

“I’d never call you a you-know-what!” James scoffs.

“Messing up your hair because you think it makes you look cool, showing off with that stupid Snitch, hexing anyone who annoys you just because you can. You make me _sick_.”

James shakes his head, laughing to himself. “I didn’t make you sick when you decided to come to bed with me,” he says casually, making Lily flush, and she turns and storms away without another word.

The memory seems to stop there, as Darcy’s surroundings begin to cloud and disappear, and Darcy is forced away from Snape, from her father and Sirius, who look ready to continue bullying Snape. She’s being taken away from Lupin, who hadn’t done or said a thing the entire time, away from Peter, who had crept to his friends’ sides to laugh with them, and Darcy catches a glimpse of Lily’s red hair before everything goes black and she’s rising through the Pensieve, her feet hitting the flooring of Snape’s office.

Her legs trembling, Darcy collapses to the ground, inching away from the Pensieve. She’d be quite happy if she never had to use it again. Touching her wet cheeks, Darcy sniffles, wiping her tears away. She wants to dwell on what she’s just seen—wants to try and make sense of it all, but all she wants right now is to be as far away from that stupid Pensieve as possible.

Darcy pushes herself to her feet, stumbling backwards into Snape’s desk, her legs still wobbly, and when she steadies herself again, she sprints away from the office. 


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the feedback ahhh!!! happy holidays!!

“Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. Calm down, calm down, okay, okay, okay, calm down, Darcy.”

She repeats this mantra over and over to herself, sweating slightly, hands trembling as she pours herself a glass of firewhisky and downs it in one go. Then she pours another, leaving it sit on the counter as she fumbles with some matches to light the cigarette she places between her lips. Her heart is still racing, making her feel faint, her mind working faster than she’s ever known her mind to work, replaying the events she’d just witnessed over and over and over again. The intruder is pushed to the back of her mind, the photographs forgotten for the time being as she attempts to process what she’s just seen, what she’d heard.

Whatever she had thought Snape would show her, it definitely wasn’t that. Yet at the same time, part of her is amazed that Snape had willingly given her the memory to see, had allowed her to see something so humiliating and so hurtful and so sad. She does not blame him in the slightest for making her do that alone, and the sight of Snape, as a boy, on the ground and choking on suds and struggling to get up, is burned in her brain, makes her nauseous, a feeling made only worse with the alcohol. And to have seen her father do it—he had been laughing, he had been mocking Snape, he’d been cruel for the simple fact that Snape existed. And Sirius had been there and encouraged it, had jeered along with James and the crowd of onlookers. Snape had done nothing but walk by them—he had done nothing to deserve the beating James had given him.

And Lupin had let it all happen. He sat there, listening to it happen, refusing to do anything. He had not laughed along, hadn’t joined in the teasing, but he didn’t say anything against it. How many times had Sirius told her that Lupin was always the good boy, that he had always kept the others in line, that he was chosen as a prefect to exercise control over his friends? None of those things seemed, to Darcy, at all true in Snape’s memory. Whether out of sheer cowardice, or some other stupid reason, Lupin refused to stand up to his friends.

Darcy tries to make a case for Lupin, just because she loves him. She knows who he is now, and she knows he is not that sixteen-year-old boy she saw in Snape’s memory. He can’t be, because Darcy knows that Lupin is a good and kind man, one reason she loves him so much. Lupin had stopped Sirius from making snide remarks about Darcy and Snape before. But Darcy remembers the pink tint that had always appeared on his cheeks afterwards, the uncomfortable look he’d give when asked to speak up to Sirius. It makes Darcy squirm to think Lupin a coward, a bully, and it makes her more nervous to think maybe that’s why he never liked to speak of his boyhood, afraid to confess he had let things like this happen.

Then again, Darcy thinks, she has done the same thing before. Emily and Gemma used to tease other students, they used to make fun of others, and Darcy had never intervened. Then again, Emily and Gemma never called anyone else names, never flipped anyone else upside down, never showed off anyone’s underwear to a large group of students. And they’d grown out of it . . . once Carla started hanging around Gemma, the mocking lessened greatly, and Emily followed suit without question in fourth year. Surely Darcy would have stood up to them had they treated anyone the way her father and Sirius had treated Snape. She knows far too well what it feels like to be laughed at and mocked not to stand up to something like that.

Yet Lily had come to Snape’s aid, of all people. She had been furious with James, had seemed to hate him. She alone had stood up for Snape, hadn’t been afraid to stand up to James. Though Darcy thinks there were split seconds while watching her mother’s face that she thought a grin was pulling reluctantly at the corners of Lily’s lips. She had flushed at the mention of Darcy, as if she was something to be ashamed of, as if she was something not to be spoken of in front of other people. Both Sirius and Lupin had told her multiple times that James loved Darcy more than anything, so why hadn’t he seemed to care when Lily brought her up?

And Snape had called her a Mudblood—out of frustration and humiliation, Darcy’s sure, but he said it nonetheless. Darcy remembers the first time she had ever heard that foul word, spoken to her in regards to her mother, spoken by a fourth year Slytherin girl with yellow hair and a square jaw. Darcy had only been twelve or thirteen at the time and hadn’t understood what the word meant at all, but Gemma and Emily had jumped to Darcy’s defense, deeply wounded on her account.

It’s hard to feel angry at Snape after seeing the memory. It’s hard to feel angry when all she’d wanted was for it to stop. She can’t imagine facing Snape now, afraid of what he’ll say, afraid of how he’ll react. She wants to talk to Lupin—no matter his feelings towards her, Darcy knows he will not deny her an answer about her parents, will not deny her an answer about James bullying Snape. But she won’t see Lupin for another week, and the thought kills her. To have such a secret building inside of her for an entire week seems impossible. If only she could write him, if only Snape could take her back to Grimmauld Place for a few hours to talk about it.

Darcy finishes her cigarette, lights a fire in the grate, and seats herself on the sofa with her drink, staring into the flames. Something brushes against her right hand and she jumps, looking down at where her fingers are just touching the cushion. At first glance, there seems to be nothing there, but then the firelight catches it just right, and Darcy freezes.

Setting her drink down, Darcy picks up a few of the hairs on the sofa. They aren’t long, but Darcy has had Crookshanks over for company far too often not to recognize them at cat hairs. But these hairs are not ginger—they’re almost blonde, a light brown color almost the color of dust. Her jaw clenches and she looks back over at the fireplace, still a mess with the glittering dust. Camera still sitting upon the table, she takes it slowly, snapping a picture of the cat hairs upon her sofa.

“Mrs. Norris,” Darcy sighs, drying the picture distractedly.

It’s an odd situation, she thinks. For one—if it was Filch, and she can’t see it being anyone else after finding the cat hairs upon the sofa—he didn’t even bother to clean up. He’d left Floo Powder lying on the floor and inside the fireplace, her things had been put away clumsily, drawers hanging half open and books upside down on the shelves. Nothing has quite been put back correctly, as if he was in a hurry and had to leave before able to clean his mess.

Darcy forces herself not to think of the memory. She can’t. She won’t. Not until Friday night, when she arrives at Grimmauld Place. Then, she’ll go straight to Lupin and tell him what she’d seen.

_No_ , she thinks, horrified. _I can’t tell him that. Snape would kill me. He showed me this in confidence._

A problem she can work around. She’ll just go straight to Lupin and tell him that . . . Snape had told her James had hung him upside down. He doesn’t need to know that she’d watched Snape call Lily a Mudblood, doesn’t need to know that Snape had placed enough trust in her to watch the memory herself. All she needs to know are things like—why was James so cruel, why didn’t Lupin ever exercise his right to punish such cruelty, why did they hate Snape so much? Yes, those are good questions, she thinks, and if Lupin doesn’t want to give her answers, then she’ll just threaten to go elsewhere with her questions. Not that he’d buy that—Darcy’s sure Lupin knows her far too well and will likely call her on her bluff.

The most pressing issue, however, is the clear invasion of her privacy. She knows Filch wouldn’t have acted alone—there’s no reason for Filch to have searched her room. But she thinks of what Nearly Headless Nick had said to her and Hermione just about a week ago now: _she wants proof._ Proof that Darcy is well aware of Sirius’ whereabouts. And Umbridge didn’t want to do the dirty work herself. Surely Umbridge would have cleaned up after herself? Wouldn’t she have made it so Darcy would never know her room had been ransacked? Or did she want Darcy to know? Did she want Darcy to understand what she is capable of doing? How far she’s willing to go? It’s not like she’d found anything incriminating—if she had, Darcy likely would have been in a cell in Azkaban by now.

Getting to her feet, Darcy makes sure all of her photographs are still in her pockets. She skulks down to Snape’s office first, but he has still not returned, and he’s not in the classroom, either. It’s only then does she realize she has no idea where Snape’s private rooms are, wondering they’re through some secret door in his office or in a completely different place. Darcy doesn’t dare check the staff room in case Umbridge is there, so instead decides to go to the only other teacher she really trusts with her life. Luckily for her, Professor McGonagall is in her office, still fully dressed, willing to let her in.

“You all right, Potter? Have you been drinking?” McGonagall asks quickly as she closes the door behind them. There’s already a fire burning in the grate and McGonagall has Darcy sit in a squashy armchair beside it.

“It’s nothing,” Darcy lies, having forgotten what she probably looks like. Crying so hard has probably made her look a right mess, and she’s sure that she stinks of drink. “I can’t find Professor Snape anywhere, but I have to tell someone—I just got back not too long ago, and when I went into my room, it was as if someone had gone through my things.”

Professor McGonagall looks at her curiously from behind her square spectacles. “Was anything taken?”

“No,” Darcy answers, sure of it. “I brought most of my things back home for safekeeping. Nearly Headless Nick brought it to my attention last week that Umbridge was looking for proof I was hiding Sirius, and—I think it was Filch. I think he used the Floo Network to get into my room. And I think Umbridge put him up to it.”

Mouthing soundlessly for a moment, taking in this sudden accusation, Professor McGonagall looks deeply troubled. “Do you have proof of this, Potter?” she asks again, narrowing her eyes. “If your accusation gets out and is unfounded—”

Darcy nods, and McGonagall blinks in surprise. “I have proof.” Standing and digging in her pockets for the photographs, she lays them out on a nearby table for Professor McGonagall to look at. McGonagall examines them closely, looking at each one, her hand over her heart, surveying the overturned ink bottles, ruffled paperwork, the glittering mess in her fireplace, and the cat hairs on her sofa. “Those aren’t Crookshanks’ hair. They’re Mrs. Norris’, I’m sure they are. I asked the portrait outside my room if she allowed anyone in, and she said only Hermione had gone in, and she wouldn’t have left my room in this state.”

“And you’re absolutely positive nothing was taken?”

“I checked. I’m positive, Professor.” Darcy runs a hand through her hair, which is still damp with sweat. For one horrible moment, Darcy imagines Umbridge finding the article hidden in her underwear drawer, but the portrait had said Hermione was the first to reach her room . . . and if Hermione had seen her room in such a state, surely she would have gone to someone—surely she would have gone to McGonagall.

“Very well. I’ll keep these photographs for now. Tomorrow I will show them to the Headmaster and we will discuss a further course of action. Until then . . .” Professor McGonagall turns towards the fire again, apparently lost in thought. Taking this as her cue to leave, Darcy clears her throat and takes a step backwards. It’s then that McGonagall seems to remember she’s even there. “Be careful, Potter. There is no telling how far Umbridge is willing to go to discredit you.”

Darcy nods quickly, holding her hands behind her back and shifting awkwardly. “If you see Professor Snape tonight, could you tell him to come see me? It’s important, or else I wouldn’t ask.”

With her thin eyebrows knitted together, Professor McGonagall nods. After a heavy pause, she asks, “Are you sure you’re all right, Potter? You’re looking pale.”

“I’m fine.” Darcy isn’t sure why she lies, for she’s sure Professor McGonagall could answer at least a few of the questions she has. But Darcy knows McGonagall a little better than she probably. Professor McGonagall has always spoken fondly of James and Sirius and even of Lupin, and she’s sure that she would assert their goodness and kindness if Darcy were to ask. “It’s just been a long day. I’ll be going now.”

As Darcy turns to leave, McGonagall calls, “Potter,” and she turns once more, her arms around herself. “Whatever Remus may have said to you . . . he knows you meant well.” There’s another pregnant pause, filled only by the crackling of the fire. “He cares very much for you. Not that I approve or condone anything that may have happened between you while you were his student—”

Darcy sighs, blushing furiously. “Professor, no offense, but I really don’t want to hear it right now.”

“Of course,” McGonagall replies apologetically. “I only meant . . . well, I mean it. He does care deeply for you, and you should not forget it.”

Maybe a few hours ago, the sentiment would have made her feel better, but now it just makes Darcy sad. “Right,” she says. “Goodnight, Professor.”

* * *

Snape is already seated at the staff table when Darcy arrives for breakfast Monday morning. Sitting down beside him, Snape doesn’t acknowledge her in the slightest, but his cheeks are colored red as he avoids looking her in the face. It doesn’t worry her in the slightest, and Darcy looks past him, hoping to get a look at Umbridge, to gauge her mood, to see if there’s anything suspicious about her that may implicate her in the searching of her room. To Darcy’s surprise, Umbridge seems to sense her looking, and she turns her ugly face slowly towards Darcy, a wide and thin-lipped and insincere grin growing on her face. Darcy’s breath hitches and she flattens herself again against the back of her chair.

“Professor Snape,” she breathes quickly, distractedly and forcefully loading her plate with breakfast. “I have to talk to you, in private.”

Snape lifts his eyes to finally meet hers. It’s clear he has no intention of going anywhere private with Darcy right now.

“It’s not about that,” she whispers. “It’s important. I need to talk to you away from Umbridge.”

“Finish your breakfast quickly.”

Darcy barely touches her own breakfast, still nauseous from what she’d seen in the Pensieve. When Snape finishes his own meal, they leave the Great Hall together. Darcy looks once over her shoulder before leaving, just to see if Umbridge is looking back at her, and she is. Clearing her throat, Darcy grabs Snape’s sleeve and hurries him down a corridor, so nervous she could throw up. As they pass by a door off the narrow corridor, Darcy throws it open and pulls Snape inside a dark broom closet, stumbling over some extra mops.

Chest to chest with Darcy, Snape holds his wand up, giving them some light. “What are you doing?” he hisses.

Bathed in the bluish light from his wand, both Darcy and Snape’s cheeks are flushed with embarrassment at the tight fit, and there’s something very uncomfortable about having her chest touching his. Being almost of the same height, their faces are very close together—too close for Darcy’s liking—and she looks away from him.

“I thought this was going to be an empty classroom,” she confesses. Then, suddenly very professional, Darcy looks back up at him. “Listen, Professor, yesterday when we came back and I went up to my room—”

“Hold on,” Snape says, shuffling slightly to turn towards the door. With a wave of his wand, the lock clicks, and then he whispers, “ _Muffliato_.”

Darcy’s never heard this spell before, and when nothing happens after a few moments, she gives Snape an incredulous look. “What was that supposed to do?” she asks with a scoff.

“Now no one will be able to hear us,” he replies coolly.

Darcy raises her eyebrows, slightly impressed. “Anyway, when I went up to my room, it was clear it had been searched. Everything was—scattered and touched, and my drawers were open, and there was Floo Powder in the fireplace, and cat hairs on the sofa. I took pictures of everything and I was going to show you, but I couldn’t find you, so I went to Professor McGonagall—”

The color immediately drains from Snape’s face. “What did they take?” His hands grip her upper arms, giving her a slight, desperate shake. “What did you have in there?”

“Nothing— _nothing_ , I swear,” Darcy answers breathlessly, peeling his fingers off her arms. “Nothing was taken, but a little while ago, Nearly Headless Nick heard Umbridge and Filch talking about finding incriminating evidence that would point to me hiding Sirius. That’s why I took all my photographs and everything back home, so no one would find anything. And then I saw the cat hairs and—they’re Mrs. Norris’, I know they are. Filch was in my room.”

Snape’s brow furrows and he raises his hands, as if to touch her again, but lowers them, thinking better of it. Darcy’s rather glad he does, wanting to run out of the broom closet and never be in such close contact with Snape again. “Filch was in your room,” he repeats, and Darcy nods eagerly.

“He left it a mess, like he was in a hurry to get out. I mean, it was obvious right away when I walked in that someone had gone through my things.” She takes a deep breath, hoping he’ll have an answer for her, but Snape still doesn’t speak. “Professor McGonagall has the photographs now, and I don’t know what she’ll do with them—likely go to Professor Dumbledore, but I—”

But Snape nearly kicks open the door of the broom closet, sweeping out without a word, his black robes billowing behind him. Bewildered, Darcy stands there in the darkness for a moment before following him, running up to his side with a few long strides. He walks quickly, not down the stairs into the dungeons towards his own classroom, where she assumes he had been meaning to go, but past the staircase and down another corridor. It’s then that she realizes he means to go directly to Filch’s office.

“Professor Snape,” Darcy says warily, tugging at his sleeve, but he tears his arm away from her, not slowing down or showing any signs of stopping. “Professor Snape, please—”

“Get off of me, Darcy!” Snape shouts, ripping his arm out of her grip again as they approach Filch’s office. He doesn’t even knock, but opens the door on an unsuspecting Filch, in the middle of a lonely breakfast with his cat circling his heels, her tail brushing against his shins.

At the sight of both Snape and Darcy, the blood drains from Filch’s already pasty face, and he jumps to his feet, looking nervous. Rearranging his face into something that resembles his usual sneer, Filch keeps his eyes trained on Snape, pretending that Darcy isn’t there. She doesn’t quite mind, not wanting to look Filch in his pouchy face, either. Anger surges through her, but her main objective at this point is to stop Snape—which she realizes she’s failing to do, miserably, because Snape grabs Filch by the front of his moldy robes and pushes him against the hard wall. Filch grunts and Darcy yelps.

“What were you doing, Flooing into Darcy’s room?” Snape snarls, fingers bunched up in Filch’s robes. “What were you in such a hurry to find?”

“Didn’t go in no one’s room, Professor,” Filch replies weakly in the middle of being shaken by Snape. Pinned to the wall, he smiles with yellow teeth, and Snape scrunches his nose. “Don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Snape snaps, opening his mouth to speak again. “She claims she has proof that you and your wretched cat—”

“Professor Snape!” Darcy forces herself much closer to Filch than she would like, grabbing both of Snape’s wrists and pulling him away from Filch. The caretaker is left panting against the wall, and Mrs. Norris hisses at Snape, swiping at his leg. Snape winds up to kick her, but Filch scoops her up just in time, looking distressed and furious at the planned attack on his cat. Darcy releases Snape’s wrists, pushing him gently away and looking into his face, murmuring, “What are you doing? Don’t make it any worse than it already is.”

“He—he—” Snape stammers softly, glancing over to see Filch staring at them. He touches her shoulders gently, moving her closer to the door to keep Filch from eavesdropping. With his back to him, Snape sighs. “He invaded your privacy.”

“Yes, he did,” Darcy whispers back, raising her eyebrows. “But I didn’t mean for you to come confront him. You know who told him to search my room. You know he hasn’t got the brains to have worked it out for himself.”

Snape clenches his jaw, lowering his hands from Darcy’s shoulders. “I won’t allow them to treat you like this,” he says, so quietly that Darcy isn’t sure he’s really said it at all. His words touch her, and she smiles weakly in spite of herself. “You work for me, and no apprentice or assistant or whatever you are of mine will be subjected to room searches like one of Azkaban’s inmates.”

“Just forget about it, please, Professor,” Darcy pleads softly, hoping that Filch can’t hear them. “If you get sacked, then what will I do? I need you here. Please, don’t make it worse.”

These words seem to finally affect him. His shoulders relax, and Darcy glances at Filch over his shoulder. Filch is watching them with a scowl on his face, as if wishing they would do this anywhere except in his office. Darcy brushes off the front of Snape’s robes, adjusting them for him, nodding and raising her eyebrows again. He nods, and Darcy grabs hold of his right arm, leading him out of Filch’s office, leaving Filch in a state of utter confusion.

Darcy looks up at Snape, bursting to talk about what she’d seen in the Pensieve. “Professor?”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry for what they did to you.” She sees his jaw clamp shut, forcibly avoiding her gaze. Snape keeps his eyes forward, seemingly ignoring her. “I know it won’t change anything, and I know the word alone will never be enough, but . . . I’m sorry.”

“Enough,” he says sharply, giving her a sideways look. “You don’t owe me an apology. You did nothing wrong.”

“My father wronged you—”

“Don’t,” Snape hisses. There’s a long pause before he speaks again. “You are not your father.” There’s a coldness to his words, despite the warmth they bring her. He almost seems like his old self again.

Yet Darcy blushes anyway, not having meant to humiliate him further. She goes to release his arm, to give him some space, and is surprised when Snape’s hand darts out to grab her wrist before she can pull away. They lock eyes for a moment before looking the opposite way, and Darcy tightens her grip on his arm.

* * *

While Hermione is very interested to hear who had searched Darcy’s room, Harry and Ron tune out when it’s revealed that nothing was found or taken, wolfing their lunches down, hardly breathing. Darcy indulges Hermione right away with what she’d found upon entering Sunday night, and she’s relieved when Hermione confirms that she had been the one to take the article out of her underwear drawer. Though, according to Hermione, everything was perfectly normal when she’d entered that Friday, and there had been nothing to suggest there had been an intruder. Though unsurprised (especially after the information presented to them by Nearly Headless Nick), Hermione voices her own relief at the fact Darcy had taken away everything incriminating in time.

Ron does seem slightly more interested in hearing about how Harry’s date with Cho Chang had gone in Hogsmeade. Darcy tries to hide her eagerness at hearing about it, not wanting to embarrass Harry. When he explains that Cho had angrily and tearfully left him in Madam Puddifoot’s after Harry had told her he needed to meet with Hermione, both Darcy and Hermione groan loudly.

“What?” Harry snaps at them both, but his expression softens at the sight of them looking so pityingly at him.

“She was jealous, Harry,” Darcy chuckles, lifting her bottle of butterbeer to her lips. When Harry continues to look puzzled, she continues. “It’s not a very good idea to announce you have to meet another girl while you’re on a date.”

“You should have told her that it was really annoying that I made you meet me, and you really didn’t want to, and that if she had come, you might be able to leave early,” Hermione adds with a firm nod. “And maybe you should have mentioned how ugly you think I am.”

Harry blinks. “But I don’t think you’re ugly.”

Hermione laughs, but Darcy rolls her eyes. “She shouldn’t have been so childish about the whole thing. I mean, she knows that you’re Harry’s best friend, doesn’t he?”

“That’s bold of you, Darcy,” Hermione replies with a smile teasing her lips. “It’s _childish_ to be jealous of another man’s friends now, is it?”

Darcy blushes furiously, giving Hermione a dangerous look, but Ron speaks distractedly before she can answer. “Harry’s hardly a man, is he?”

“That’s different,” Darcy hisses, stung by the pleased little smirk on Hermione’s face. “She _actively_ wants him—”

“No offense, Hermione,” Harry says with a raised eyebrow. “But I don’t passively want you, either.”

Hermione pays him no mind, looking expectantly at Darcy.

“Don’t think we’re talking about you anymore, mate,” Ron says to Harry with a mouthful of baked potato. His eyes dart from Hermione to Darcy and back again, puzzled.

Darcy checks her watch. “You guys should be getting to class. And me. Hermione, come see me after dinner.”

She does, and Darcy’s so excited to at least get something off her chest, she has a bottle of butterbeer on standby for Hermione, a bottle of red wine open for herself. It’s almost like having private gossip sessions with Gemma, and the thought of Gemma makes her heart ache. It’s nice to have Hermione around to be able to talk about girl things, but Darcy does miss Gemma’s company the most. Lacking any boundaries and with no topic of conversation off limits, it’s much easier to speak around Gemma knowing she can speak completely freely.

Hermione has brought Crookshanks for the occasion, as well. He and Max chase each other around the room, hissing and hooting and purring and yowling. She seems eager to hear what Darcy has to say, and they slump onto the sofa, legs meeting in the middle, casually sipping their drinks before the warm fire. Darcy keeps glancing quickly into the flames, half afraid that Filch or Umbridge’s faces will appear like Sirius’, or that—even worse—one of them will step out of the fire completely.

“Remus is back,” Darcy says softly, rubbing her face, not looking into Hermione’s face. She swirls her glass of wine, staring down into it. “Friday night—he had only just been back almost an hour when I arrived.”

Hermione beams. “That’s excellent! Is he all right?”

“No,” Darcy answers, knowing it’s the complete truth. She sees Hermione’s smile falter out of the corner of her eye. “Physically . . . it was nothing Gemma couldn’t fix.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I wouldn’t send him back if his life depended on it—and maybe it does. It kills him. He’s bitter about it, and frightened.” Darcy hesitates, wishing she would just shut up. She wants to ask about the article, about the meeting with Rita Skeeter—the last thing she wants to talk about it something that’s sure to make her cry. “He wasn’t a wearing a shirt— _bastard_. He knows I’m weak around him without a shirt on.”

Hermione clears her throat, bringing Darcy out of her reverie—sort of. She can’t stop thinking about the way he had looked lying on the sofa, bleeding from several scratches that looked to have been bleeding him dry. His face had been drained of all color, sweaty and pale and weak and wounded and helpless—pathetic. Dumbledore hadn’t seen him that state, but Darcy had, and she wishes Dumbledore would recognize that, whatever could be gained by befriending a few werewolves, it’s not worth subjecting Lupin to the pain and the fear.

“He told me he missed me, thought of me, ached for me,” Darcy whispers, feeling suddenly very sad about the entire thing. Distracted with thoughts of Snape’s memory since just last night, Darcy hasn’t had much time to dwell on her argument with Lupin. “I was his again, just for a little bit.”

Hermione sits up slightly, curiosity piqued. “Did you kiss?”

Darcy gives Hermione an incredulous look. “Remus and I are both adults who’ve been in a serious relationship together,” she says. “We’re far beyond the point of just kissing.”

Hermione’s cheeks flush violently. Her entire face bright red, she chokes on the sip of butterbeer she’d taken to try and hide her face.

“Anyway, I told him about the article. Emily and Gemma seemed to think it was time he found out before it was published.” Darcy sighs heavily. “How did it go Saturday?”

“It went well, actually,” Hermione replies with a small shrug. “Harry gave her the real story—all about how Cedric had died and what happened in the graveyard when Voldemort came back. It was . . . the first time Harry had told the whole story. And I gave Rita your article. She seemed to think it was funny, and I don’t think she’ll be changing anything.”

“When will it be published?” Darcy asks casually, fingering the rim of her glass. “Just out of curiosity?”

“Luna’s been so vague, it’s hard to say,” Hermione says apologetically, placing her butterbeer down on the table and folding her hands in her lap. “Either this next issue or the following one. People are really excited about it. How did Lupin . . . you know . . . what did he say about the article?”

It seems to Darcy, judging by the nervous look on her face, that Hermione already knows how Lupin feels about the article without having to hear an explanation. Hermione had been right the entire time, of course. Darcy should have just heeded her advice and done nothing, should have just ignored Emily and Gemma. How could she have been so stupid as to actually listen to them? But what’s done is done, and Darcy knows it’s no use to feel sorry for herself—all she can do now is stand by what she’s written, defend her sentiments and opinions to others who may find her words degrading and foolish and naive.

“He was so angry with me,” Darcy tells Hermione, blushing. “He said it was stupid and reckless of me to write something. He said that I’ve put myself in danger and ruined everything that he’s worked for, that I should just do as I’m told. And he said . . .” Darcy chances a glance at Hermione, frowning. “I told him you were helping me get it published, and he said he was going to have words with you. Sorry. He yelled at Emily, too, if it’s any consolation.”

Hermione groans. “Why’d you have to drag me into it, Darcy?”

“Gemma will put him in his place,” Darcy says quickly, but it doesn’t seem to make Hermione feel any better. “I’m sure of it. But . . . that won’t change anything. He’ll still hate me. He won’t want anything to do with me anymore. And I don’t think I could bear to see him and Tonks—”

“What makes you think that, just because you’ve written an article that’s frustrated him, he’ll automatically go to Tonks?”

“Because he’s lonely and she’s beautiful and everything that I am not.” The words come easily to her, too easily, and Darcy covers her face with her hands, starting to cry. “She’s an Auror and I’m . . . nothing. I’m not even a real teacher, the older students hate me for reasons I don’t even understand.”

“But you are a real teacher.” Hermione smiles weakly, patting Darcy on the back. “You know, the first years think I’m really cool because we’re such good friends. I don’t think anyone’s ever thought I was really cool before.”

“You are cool, Hermione,” Darcy sniffles, laughing softly in spite of herself. “You’ve always been cool to me.” She finishes her glass of wine, refilling it almost to the very top. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?” Darcy asks, more to herself than to Hermione.

“No, you haven’t. No one could possibly blame you for wanting to help.” Hermione shifts slightly beside Darcy, looking mildly uncomfortable. “I never thought your article was stupid, believe me. I just didn’t want to see Umbridge sack you, or have you thrown in Azkaban. It’s dangerous to speak out right now, especially for you and Harry. I’m still not convinced we’ve done the right thing, but . . . it’s done now, and we’ll just take it a day at a time.”

Darcy sighs again, looking at Hermione curiously. “When did you grow up, Hermione?” she says, and Hermione’s cheeks turn slightly pink as she shrugs. “Sometimes I forget you’re not a first year anymore, hiding in restrooms from loose trolls.”

This makes them both laugh, but it’s forced laughter. “If you hadn’t been there, I might never have left that restroom.”

Darcy rubs the back of her neck, slightly pleased with Hermione’s praise. “Ah . . . you’re not giving Harry and Ron enough credit . . .”

* * *

Darcy races to the dungeons, occasionally passing a student or two making their way to their common room after dinner. There are a few stragglers still lingering by the Great Hall, but Professor Sprout scatters them, flashing Darcy a warm smile that Darcy is too busy to return.

Four days. Four whole, entire days to think of nothing but Snape’s memory. Four days of thinking about Snape being tormented by her father—James Potter, a name that continues to be held in high esteem and regard by the teachers of Hogwarts, a man everyone remembers fondly, had been a bully, just as arrogant and off putting as Snape had always told her. Then again, she tries to reason with herself, she had only seen a single snippet of James’ entire school career. Who’s to say that Snape hadn’t shown her the one time he’d been overtly cruel? But even if it was only one time, James had definitely crossed a line, hanging Snape upside down, choking him . . . Snape had every reason to retaliate, didn’t he?

At first, Snape calling her mother a Mudblood hadn’t bothered her as much, considering she had watched her father and her godfather nearly torture him. It’s just a word, she had told herself. But the more she had thought about it over the past few days, the more she’s realized, it’s _not_ just a word. It’s not just a word, just as Gemma always says Voldemort is not just a name. Gemma had always said that it is not the name she fears, but the looming threat of his return, his ideas, his rule. Isn’t it the same with Mudblood? It’s not just a word, but the hate behind it, the prejudice behind it. To use such a word means that Snape was not entirely innocent—that he had upheld values that Darcy doesn’t agree with in the slightest, values that anger her, values that insult her and her mother’s memory.

Does he still hold those beliefs now? That Muggleborns are nothing but dirt under his shoe? The thought sickens her, to know that she could care for someone who thinks that way. But then again, Gemma loves her parents very much despite what they are and what they’ve done, and she had always made it a point to tell her that she does not agree with their choices. Is it possible to fully love someone so bad? Someone so evil? Is evil too strong a word for Snape, who is now part of the resistance? Or had it been an accurate word at one point, and had that been the reason James hated him so much?

Darcy knows it’s possible that people can change, but how much exactly has Snape changed since then? Since the Dark Mark had been branded onto his arm? And what made him change? What force could have pushed him into the arms of Dumbledore and the Order and away from Voldemort?

She reaches for the doorknob to Snape’s classroom when she hears it—the giggle and the voice she hates so much, the giggle and the voice of Umbridge.

“. . . come now, Severus, we all know how you feel for the girl. Your personal feelings should not blind you . . .”

Darcy takes a step back, about to run away in fear of Umbridge suddenly opening the door to find her standing there, eavesdropping. But she is curious . . . so very curious . . . Darcy moves closer to the door again, surprised to hear Professor McGonagall’s voice speak in place of Snape’s.

“. . . Potter is not a threat to this school or the Ministry of Magic in any way, and therefore I see no reason as to why her room should be searched without her permission . . . and to be left in such a condition . . .”

“. . . I quite agree with Minerva . . . my apprentice will not be subjected to such things . . .”

There’s another girlish giggle from the other side of the door, and Darcy’s stomach swoops. She presses her ear to the door, but their voices are getting lower and it’s difficult to make everything out. Darcy desperately wishes she had one of Fred and George’s Extendable Ears. “. . . there have been dreadful rumors, Minerva, Severus . . . surely you’ve heard of Potter’s . . . extracurricular activities with the company she keeps,” Umbridge replies, in a voice of mock politeness. “. . . as High Inquisitor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I have a certain degree of authority over the other teachers here . . .”

“You have questioned Darcy multiple times already, with and without Veritaserum . . . you have heard the absolute truth from her already . . . I can vouch for Darcy’s whereabouts during the weekends, as I’ve told you already . . .”

“I should like to know where you are hearing these rumors, Dolores,” McGonagall says sharply. “If any student has something to say about the company Potter decides to keep, they are more than welcome to say it to their Head of House, or to the Headmaster himself if they are feeling bold enough.”

Umbridge giggles again, as if in disbelief. Neither McGonagall or Snape laugh with her. “I think the company Potter decides to keep speaks volumes. Since she refuses to give his whereabouts to me, Ministry workers are currently working tirelessly to locate the werewolf and escaped convict Sirius Black—”

“Ten highly dangerous Death Eaters have recently broken out of Azkaban, and the Ministry is focusing its efforts on locating an innocent man?” Professor McGonagall’s voice is hoarse, and she sounds exasperated. Darcy can almost picture her face—dark eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline, eyes bulging behind her glasses. “This seems, to me, like a very strong miscarriage of justice. The man has suffered enough on the Ministry’s account already—”

“Pardon, Minerva,” Umbridge interrupts, and her voice is suddenly cold and curt, no hint of false laughter or high-pitched breathiness. “Are you unhappy with the way Cornelius is running the Ministry? You seem to be suggesting the idea that dangerous half-breeds should be running amok among us, but look at the facts. The Minister is very concerned about how Dumbledore let that _man_ take advantage of a student under his own nose, in his own school. Dumbledore has denied Cornelius’ request for a formal inquiry several times, but he cannot refuse forever.”

“There is no reason for an inquiry to take place,” McGonagall responds with an icy tone, and Darcy feels a surge of affection for her. “Professor Dumbledore has spoken to both parties involved already and the matter has been resolved with not the merest suggestion of foul play—”

“And Dumbledore has not released the contents of their conversations to the Ministry, as was requested,” Umbridge finishes for her. “I think you fail to realize the severity of Mr. Lupin’s actions, the danger that he imposed upon Miss Potter by asserting himself—”

“Asserting himself!” McGonagall repeats loudly. “You are blinded by prejudice—you are seeing what you want to see—”

“Regardless of his actions, if you are unhappy with the way the Ministry is running things and would like to file a formal complaint, I would be glad to help you . . . why, I could even hand deliver it to the Minister myself . . .”

There’s a heavy silence, and Darcy knows McGonagall is not fool enough to continue to criticize the Ministry of Magic in front of Umbridge, but Darcy also knows that McGonagall does care for her, and will likely not let Umbridge’s comment slide. In a voice as soft as a hiss and nearly as dangerous as Snape’s, McGonagall lets loose. “Remus did not take advantage of Darcy, and to suggest otherwise is an insult to the both of them!”

There’s the slow clicking of heels on the stone floor of Snape’s classroom. Darcy’s stomach churns violently, and her heart begins to beat unnaturally fast. Umbridge hums in a bemused and bored sort of way. Pressing her ear still harder against the door, Darcy listens.

“If you have any knowledge regarding this curious situation or the whereabouts of Remus Lupin, Minerva, I would advise you to speak up now.” Darcy can picture vividly the wide, toad-like smile on her face.

“And even if I knew where Remus was, what would you do with him if I told you?” Darcy thinks it’s rather bold of McGonagall to continue in this way, but at the same time, she finds herself rooting for her old Transfiguration teacher. “Don’t pretend this is about Darcy’s well-being, Dolores. If you cared anything about that girl, you would recognize that Remus has done more for her in the past few years to better her than most people I know.”

“He belongs in a cell in Azkaban—”

“For what crimes?” McGonagall demands. “The last I checked, being bitten by a werewolf is not a crime, nor is being in love! He has done nothing to warrant his arrest!”

Umbridge decides to ignore this. “I think you’ll find that teachers who cooperate with, not only the High Inquisitor, but with the Ministry of Magic will be rewarded as seen fit. Those who do not, however . . . well, suffice it to say, they may not be with us for very much longer.”

In a very constricted voice, McGonagall asks, “Is that a threat, Dolores?”

“Not unless you have chosen to oppose the Ministry, Minerva.” There’s another tense pause. “Good day to the both of you.”

Darcy leaps away from the door as Umbridge’s clicking footsteps grow nearer, and she throws herself into a broom closet as the door to Snape’s classroom opens. Darcy waits until she hears it shut again, listening to Umbridge’s footsteps die away as she climbs the stairs that lead back to the entrance hall and out of the gloomy dungeons. Breathing very fast, Darcy throws herself out of the closet, into the classroom, and both Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape break off their conversation, looking at her.

“How much did you hear?” Snape asks, sounding exasperated, but looking as if he had expected no less from her.

Darcy blushes, keeping her eyes fixed upon Snape’s face. “Enough,” she answers, and in a softer voice, she says, without really knowing why she says it, “You can see, if you’d like.”

Snape wastes no time. With a hand in the pocket of his robes, likely clenched around his wand, Darcy can almost feel Snape penetrate her thoughts, bringing her most recent memory to the forefront of her mind. He holds her gaze for a moment before turning away, leaving Darcy panting heavily. While feeling quite fine—maybe a little shaky—it’s as if her brain has just done several sets of heavy and laborious exercise. McGonagall watches Darcy warily, bringing herself up to her full height.

Before excusing herself from the empty classroom and leaving Darcy alone with Snape, Professor McGonagall places a hand upon her shoulder, squeezing gently. “I’m sorry there was not more we could do . . . but the lack of incriminating evidence found does, for the time being, give you some breathing room, I think.”

“He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” Darcy asks quietly, a sinking sensation in her stomach. “They wouldn’t put him in Azkaban, would they?”

“If they ever found him,” McGonagall admits, but she seems determined. “And they won’t.”

Once the door closes with a snap behind McGonagall, Darcy exhales loudly. “That’s it, then?” Darcy asks, slightly more bitter than she’d anticipated, but she doesn’t apologize for her tone at all. “She sends Filch to search my room and stands here and dares to insult Remus and she can just get away with it?”

“What would you have had me do?” Snape snaps, striding over to his desk and splaying his hands across the desktop. “Speak up on behalf of werewolves? Your article has done that already, hasn’t it?”

“Professor Dumbledore isn’t going to do anything?” Darcy asks, outraged, the anger from the overheard conversation and the memory suddenly spilling out. “He didn’t do anything when she hurt me, so I suppose I shouldn’t have put too much faith in him this time.”

“The Headmaster is doing all he can to ensure your protection—”

“Well, he’s not doing enough,” Darcy snarls, surprised at herself. Snape raises his eyebrows at her, not moving from his position at his desk. “All he ever has are apologies for me. I’m sorry that Umbridge is torturing you in my school. I’m sorry that I cannot tell you anything. I’m sorry that I put you in this position in the first place. Why can’t he just give me answers?”

“What answers do you want, Darcy?”

“Why do I have to be here? Professor Dumbledore said it’s because he thinks I’m going to run away if I’m not here, but that’s not true,” Darcy rambles, pacing back and forth in front of Snape’s desk. “Where would I run to? Grimmauld Place? I have nowhere to go besides there, and it’s not like I’d be very hidden from Dumbledore there, would I? So what’s the real reason? Tell me.”

“Firstly, Darcy, you do not tell me to do anything,” Snape begins, scrunching his nose. She expects him to continue to berate her, but instead—“Secondly, it’s very bold of you to assume I would give you any information that Professor Dumbledore has not yet given you. Are you that unhappy here? If Umbridge was gone, would you still desire so much to leave?”

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly, softening slightly at the desperate and puzzled look on his face. “It’s not like Remus is jumping at the chance right now to have me back, so I couldn’t go with him. And Professor Dumbledore is right—I couldn’t live at home. I couldn’t handle not being able to leave the house, not being able to do anything but sit there and go crazy. There is nowhere else for me to go. There is no one else who would take me in. And I’m good at what I do—aren’t I? But while you’re here, I will never be able to be a real teacher, and I could never fill another position for a different subject.”

Snape doesn’t answer, but his eyes continue to follow her, back and forth, as he listens raptly.

“I could just up and leave and no one could stop me,” Darcy says, stopping her pacing and moving closer to the desk. “I could walk out of Hogwarts and never come back. I mean, why are we supposed to take Professor Dumbledore’s word as law? How much longer am I supposed to continue trusting him blindly when he refuses to tell me anything? Yes, he’s a great wizard, possibly the greatest of all time, but—he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know what’s best for me, or for Harry. I do. I know what’s best for us, and if he thinks that _this_ —” She gestures around wildly. “—is better for us than me just . . . scooping Harry up and leaving with him, then I don’t know what he’s playing at.”

“I—” Snape shakes his head slowly, clearing his throat. “I thought you wanted to be here . . . you had asked me, I thought—” He makes a very disgruntled sort of noise. “Why are you here? Right now, in this classroom?”

Darcy decides to get say it all quickly and hope it doesn’t elicit a harsh reaction. “I need to talk to you about it,” she sighs, her voice a little higher, feeling a little breathless. “I don’t have anyone to talk to about it and I can’t stop thinking about it and Professor, I can’t _not_ talk about it—”

“No.”

Darcy blinks, her chest heaving. “What? What do you mean ‘no’?” She scoffs. “You showed it to me and you won’t even talk to me about it?”

“We’re not talking about it. Not now, not ever.” Snape is suddenly very cold, very curt, very like his old self. Darcy feels thirteen-years-old again, receiving her first detention from him, trembling all over, afraid he was going to hit her. “Do not bring it up ever again.”

“But . . . Professor—”

“No, Darcy.” Snape looks away from her, straightening up and turning around, fussing with some empty jars on the shelf. “Go.”

Darcy frowns, wanting to cry. “What?” she rasps, taking a step closer to the desk.

“Go,” he says, in a tone that brooks no argument. “Get out.”

She hesitates, hoping he’ll turn around and see the disappointment in her face and soften, but he doesn’t. Darcy takes a moment to compose herself, wiping at the first tear that drops down her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Please, Darcy . . . just leave. Just go.”


	46. Chapter 46

“I’ll clean this up . . . you guys get out of here. It’s past curfew.”

“Thanks, Darcy.” Harry smiles weakly as he urges a few students out of the Room of Requirement, looking up from the Marauder’s Map. Hermione and Ron linger by the doorway, waiting for Harry, and Darcy turns her back on them, picking up the books that have been knocked off the shelves and flipping through them lazily, looking for anything interesting. To her surprise, Harry appears at her side a moment later. She turns her head to bid him goodnight, but Harry only kisses her head as she’s hunched over.

“Get out of here, kid,” she chuckles. “I’ll see you Monday.”

She hears them shuffling outside of the Room of Requirement, and assuming she’s alone, Darcy begins to sing softly to herself, shoving the books into the shelves at random, knowing Hermione will likely chastise her when she notices the disarray next time. But upon hearing someone clearing their throat nervously, Darcy jumps, books spilling from her arms at her feet, her heart thumping against her chest.

“I’m sorry!” Neville squeaks, his entire face flushing as he drops to his knees beside her, helping pick up the books she’d dropped.

“It’s all right, Neville,” Darcy laughs breathlessly. “You scared me, that’s all.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, still beet red.

“It’s all right.” She smiles at him. “I’ve got a quicker way anyway.” Darcy gets to her feed and waves her wand. The books return neatly to their places on the shelves. She expects Neville to leave, but he only stands there with his cheeks pink, looking flustered beneath a fringe of blond hair. “You all right, Neville?”

Still, he doesn’t answer. It looks like he’s struggling deeply with some internal conflict.

Darcy sighs. “I’m sorry for . . . you know, the thing at St Mungo’s. We shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”

“I’m not ashamed,” Neville suddenly says, rather aggressively, lifting his eyes to look Darcy full in the face with what must only be determination.

“I never said you were,” Darcy replies coolly. After a moment’s hesitation, she adds, “The few times Remus and I have spoken of your parents, he’s always spoken very highly of them.”

“He talked to me, too. One night, last year, he was coming into Hogwarts as I was leaving dinner. He said he was friends with them, and—” Neville stops abruptly, looking very uncomfortable. “It’s hard sometimes. You must know.”

“Yes,” Darcy tells him, and for some reason, it feels good to say it. “I still struggle with it some days. If I could take your grief from you, I would, Neville. I know what it’s like to hurt, and I would never wish that pain upon anyone.”

“You’ve always seemed to handle things so well,” Neville confesses. “You made it look so easy.”

“It’s not easy,” Darcy says, almost laughing incredulously. “I have nightmares all the time, and I drink a lot. I’m . . . really messed up because of what happened to my parents and what happened because of it. I went through a lot of it alone. If you ever . . . Neville, if you ever want to talk about it, you can always talk to me, if you’d like.”

Neville nods, but doesn’t smile. “I think it’s really brave what you’re doing . . . writing that article, defending werewolves. Hermione told me.”

“Thank you,” she replies, touched by his sincerity. Darcy can’t help but to smile. “But I didn’t do it to be brave. I did it because, well . . . I guess it was the right thing to do.”

“My Gran thinks you’re sensible, nothing like what the _Prophet_ says you’re like. She was glad to meet you at St Mungo’s. I guess I—I talk about you guys more than I thought. She was furious at all the things they’d been publishing about you and Professor Lupin. And this year, with what they’ve been saying about Harry . . . she refuses to read it now.” Neville shrugs casually, another dull flush creeping up his neck as soon as the first one disappears. “She believes Harry and Dumbledore, you know. And you. You, of course. Obviously. And I believe you, too.”

“Thanks,” Darcy chuckles again, quite pleased with herself upon receiving what she considers high praise from a woman such as Neville’s grandmother.

“I think you’re a good teacher, Darcy, er—Professor?”

“Neville, you’ve known me for five years now. You can call me Darcy, you know. Professor is far too formal for me.” Darcy almost reaches out and ruffles his shaggy hair, much the way she often ruffles Harry’s. She looks at him for a long moment when he finally looks at her again and she gets a clear view of his round face. It startles her how much he reminds her of Peter Pettigrew at the same age, rosy-cheeked and nervous looking. But there is a fondness in Darcy’s heart for Neville that she does not share for Peter, not in the slightest. “You’re doing really well with your spellwork. I think it’s a good sign that I’m leaving here with fresh bruises.”

“Sorry,” spills from Neville’s lips again, almost as a knee-jerk reaction.

“It’s all right.” Darcy suddenly feels very bad for him, and she doesn’t know why. “You should head back to your common room. I would hate for Umbridge to catch you out after curfew.”

“No, wait!” Neville groans, running a hand down his flushed face. “Oh—Darcy, I—I just—I overheard Harry talking about how you didn’t want to be here and I wanted to tell you that I—I think you’re better than Professor Snape—and you’ve helped my grade so much and—Gran is really pleased with me because of it . . .”

Darcy blushes, smiling bemusedly. “Thank you. You’re not terrible at Potions, you know. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

Neville smiles for the first time, looking at his feet. “Please don’t tell anyone about this . . . they’d only laugh at me. I wanted to tell you Sunday, about what a great teacher you were . . . how it’d be brilliant if you stayed here—Hermione told me where to find your room, but I couldn’t answer the portrait’s question about you, and . . . I’ve made a fool of myself, haven’t I?”

For a moment, the entire room spins. Neville had gone to her portrait Sunday . . . the day she had found her room ransacked. Had it been Neville who scared Filch into running away? Or was it merely a coincidence?

“No, you haven’t made a fool of yourself. But it’ll be our secret,” Darcy whispers. And, as Neville turns to leave, wanting to show her appreciation for his kind and sentimental words that lift her spirits and lighten her heart, Darcy bends over slightly to kiss him on the cheek, laughing softly at the sight of his furious blush. “That’ll be our little secret, too.”

Neville touches the place on his cheek where Darcy had kissed, smiling to himself.

* * *

Snape escorts Darcy to Grimmauld Place that night, same as always. They make their way down the grounds of Hogwarts in the darkness, Darcy hanging off of Snape’s arm—same as always. Anxiety has begun to stir in her stomach at the thought of seeing Lupin again, of the thought of asking him about her father, and she doesn’t realize that her fingers are clenching and unclenching, fingernails digging into his left arm until Snape hisses and she pulls away.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, crossing her arms around her chest. Snape doesn’t reply, and she’s thankful—being so lost in thought, Darcy isn’t sure she’d really hear a word spoken to her.

Maybe it isn’t so much asking Lupin about her parents as it is seeing him again after the sorry way they’d parted last weekend. She’s partially afraid that he’ll recoil at the sight of her, scowl at her when she crosses the threshold, or worse—what if he isn’t there at all? What if Lupin had chosen to spend the weekend away from Grimmauld Place so as to not be with Darcy? And if he has decided to stay, how can Darcy just ignore her burning desire to be with him every time they’re in close contact? How can she just forget—even for a moment—how badly she wants him to touch her in even the most innocent of ways? How can she forget how badly she wants to touch him? To see him crumble beneath her fingers, to see the state of him when she finishes kissing and touching him everywhere?

Darcy can’t bear the thought of Lupin hating her, but maybe hate is a strong word. He promised her he could never hate her, but that was before she’d confessed to what she had done. To think . . . she had almost had him back, too. Darcy could have spent every weekend in bed with him, waking to his fingertips brushing against her spine, his hot breath against her neck, kissing him whenever she wants, kissing him for so long her lips are left swollen and craving more. And who is she kidding? A romantic she may be, but what Darcy wouldn’t give to have him fuck her senseless every weekend, as well, to allow her to siphon off all of her bad feelings—the anger and the guilt and the confusion. As much as it helps some nights, drinking alone isn’t half as enjoyable as spending hours at a time alone with Lupin, behind closed doors, sharing sweet whispered words, long and deft fingers inside of her, smiles against each other’s skin.

And whenever she thinks of these things—of Lupin in such compromising positions, doing such dirty things to her—Darcy always thinks of the memory again, of Lupin sitting there and doing nothing while Snape was being tormented. How many other times had he allowed things like that to happen? The thought of him touching her, kissing her, makes her feel slightly unclean, as if by having him do so is an insult to Snape.

_But what should that matter_? she thinks so herself. _What should it matter who I love? Who I allow to love me?_

_If he even still loves me_ , Darcy thinks, feeling her heart break so suddenly that she gasps for breath.

“Are you all right?” Snape asks quickly, and Darcy blinks, clutching her chest and looking up at him. Concern is etched deep in his sallow face, his cold, black eyes. “Darcy?”

“I’m fine,” she answers breathlessly.

But it’s so far from the truth, she wonders how he can possibly believe it. To think that she had messed things up so badly with Lupin that he would never want her back, never want to hold her, kiss her again is unexpectedly hurtful. She had cried and cried and cried over him during the summer and even some days in between then and now, but it had never seemed so _real_. Darcy had lived so long without him and she had been—relatively—fine, but now . . . now he is her support system, the first person (besides Gemma at times) she feels comfortable going to when she needs to cry, when she needs comfort, when she needs to feel loved and wanted. Who else could ever make her feel that way? Who else would she ever want to love in return? The thought of sharing the things she’s told Lupin with someone else is nauseating. The thought of doing things with another person that she had only ever done with Lupin is humiliating and shameful and slightly disgusts her.

Darcy can’t even cry and Snape’s hand reaches for hers, fingers wrapping tight around her hand. Panic floods her—panic that has nothing to do with Snape grabbing at her hand, and she can’t breathe, but not because she’s being sucked into nothingness as they Disapparate, and her chest hurts so, so badly as her heart beats violently. Her throat is constricted even when they appear on the front step of Grimmauld Place—she doesn’t even get a chance to breathe before Snape pulls her inside, and he must feel her hand shaking unrestrainedly in his.

Snape lets them in, closing the door behind them. Darcy’s feet automatically take her a few steps in the hallway and she turns back to look at Snape. That’s when she realizes something is wrong.

He holds out his hands to her as if preparing to catch her, and his black eyes go wide with bewilderment. “Darcy, what . . . your nose—”

Trying to take in deep breaths, trying to keep from fainting, Darcy touches her nose lightly and pulls her hand away to find a significant amount of blood on her fingers. It hardly phases her, what with the room spinning sickeningly around her. When she looks blankly into Snape’s face again, he seems to take that as his cue to act.

“Are you all right?” he asks again, taking hold of her upper arms, keeping her steady, keeping the room from spinning so much. “Come on, to the kitchen.”

Snape leads her along, his hand moving her wrist, urging her into a chair, lighting a fire in the grate. Gemma’s sitting at the table already, reading an article in the _Daily Prophet_ , but lifting an eyebrow when Snape and Darcy take seats across from her.

“Smythe, go get your things,” Snape instructs her, turning to face Darcy in his chair. “If I can spare a trip back to Hogwarts, I will.”

“Yessir,” Gemma hums, getting to her feet and hurrying out of the kitchen.

Snape sighs, retrieving a handkerchief from his robes and holding it in front of her face, looking incredibly awkward. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” Darcy’s surprised she’s able to speak, surprised that her voice is soft and level.

He nods, pressing the cloth gently to the place between her nose and upper lip, wiping the blood away before cleaning the cloth and attempting to staunch the bleeding. “What just happened?” he says, sounding completely puzzled.

“I panicked,” Darcy answers, her voice hoarse.

“About what?”

Darcy looks at him a long time. His index fingers touches her chin, tilting her head back. She wishes he would take a step backwards, but is too tired to say anything. She’s saved the trouble of answering by the sound of multiple sets of feet trampling down the stairs towards the kitchen, and within seconds, Gemma, Sirius, and Lupin are filing inside. Snape looks away from Darcy forcibly as Sirius and Lupin come closer, and he flushes.

_He’s humiliated_ , Darcy thinks sadly.

Sirius turns slowly to face Snape, a look of disgust and anger on his face. “What did you _do_ to her, _Snivellus_?”

“Don’t call him that,” Darcy says quickly, before Snape can answer, and everyone’s eyes go to her. Even Gemma pauses in the middle of opening her small kit to look at her. But Darcy has eyes only for Sirius, who cold expression softens slightly.

“What happened, Darcy?” Lupin asks, kneeling beside her to examine her nose. She can’t look him in the eyes, and decides to watch Gemma busy herself with some small vials of multi-colored potions.

“My nose just started bleeding.”

“Why?”

“I must not have had a firm grip when we Disapparated.”

Lupin doesn’t press the issue, but Darcy has a feeling he isn’t thoroughly convinced by the way she won’t meet his gaze. Snape and Gemma bicker quietly for a moment about which potion to use to soothe her—Potions Master versus mediwitch—but when Gemma finds a Calming Draught tucked away in a corner, they finally agree. Gemma uncorks the vial and tips it into Darcy’s half open mouth. She expects a wonderfully comforting feeling to take over, but is sorely disappointed. All that happens is her heart begins to steady and she doesn’t feel so dizzy anymore. It doesn’t fix the aching of her broken heart, or the sadness that suddenly washes over her now that she doesn’t have to focus so much on breathing.

“It’s not much, I know . . .” Gemma frowns, looking deeply apologetic. “But if you pair it with a long sleep tonight, you’ll be fine.”

Snape wipes the sensitive skin around her nose again, the cloth coming back with less blood each time. Finally, when the bleeding has stopped, Snape watches her warily for a moment. “All right?” he murmurs.

Darcy nods. “All right.”

He stands then, leaving the kitchen without looking at anyone, and slamming the door closed at he leaves the house. Gemma closes her kit and exchanges a wary look with Lupin before sitting in Snape’s now unoccupied chair. “Come on, you can have the whole bed tonight,” she smiles. “I’ll carry your stuff up for you.”

“No,” Darcy says, allowing Sirius to help her to her shaky and tired feet. “I don’t want to sleep alone.”

“Okay.” Gemma takes Darcy’s bag from her shoulder to carry it on her own.

Darcy doesn’t actually remember walking to her bedroom. She kicks her shoes off and crawls into bed fully clothed. Gemma extinguishes lamps and change into pajamas before climbing into bed beside her. Darcy rolls over, her back to Gemma, grateful that she doesn’t speak, but goes almost immediately to sleep. She listens to Gemma’s soft and slow breathing for a long time, unable to think straight with her head so clouded.

Snape’s memory, her memory, the article, Umbridge had Filch search her room, she had ruined everything between she and Lupin, Snape’s uncomfortable display of affection. Everything is so confused and mixed up, and it makes her temples pound painfully.

After several hours (has it really been that long?), Darcy sits up and creeps out of bed, wondering tiredly if Sirius has any alcohol to clear her thoughts stored in the kitchen. The floor creaks underneath her as she moves lightly through the house; so used to the layout is she that it’s rather easy to maneuver through the darkness. She’s even able to just barely discern the silhouette of Kreacher in an especially shadowy corner halfway down the stairs. When she reaches the kitchen, she freezes, listening hard and hearing distant music, likely from Sirius’ wireless in the drawing room. Darcy hesitates, grabbing a nearby bottle of brandy and deciding to bid Sirius goodnight before retreating to the bedroom, maybe join him for a drink.

The fire is lit inside, not close to dying out, and the music is indeed coming from the wireless, a woman’s throaty voice singing for a soulful sounding band. It’s not Sirius upon the sofa, however—it’s Lupin, sitting against the side closest to the fire, reading with his head propped up with his arm. He looks up as Darcy nears him, looking curiously at her.

“You all right?” he rasps, sitting up straight.

“I thought you were Sirius. Sorry.” Darcy takes a step backwards, wanting to run away. “Goodnight.” And then, with the bottle of brandy in her hand her main source of courage, she blurts out, “Can I ask you something?”

Lupin inhales deeply and closed his book. “I don’t want to do this right now, Darcy,” he pleads.

“It’s not like that,” she replies before he gets up. Darcy takes another step forward and Lupin narrows his eyes at her, making her blush. “It’s about my father.”

“Oh?” Lupin seems slightly surprised. “What about him?”

“Can I sit?” she asks, and Lupin nods quickly, motioning for her to do so. Holding up the bottle of brandy and smiling very weakly. “Drink? I didn’t get any glasses . . .” Darcy blushes more furiously. “Sirius and I just, er . . . you know, drink from the bottle. Sorry.”

“You underestimate me,” Lupin says, holding a hand out for the bottle, and she obliges him. “Who do you think shared bottles with Sirius when he was your age?”

Darcy watches him warily as he takes a drink from the bottle, annoyingly smug about it, and she sits down on the opposite side of the sofa, drawing her knees up to her chest. “I think . . . I’m just going to go back to bed.”

“Wait—hold on,” Lupin frowns. “What did you want to know about James?”

“It’s nothing,” Darcy lies. “Never mind. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What happened earlier? What a way to make an appearance.” Lupin pauses, as if he knows what he’s going to say is not something she likely wants to hear. “Did Severus hurt you?”

“No,” Darcy says sharply, looking him straight in the eye. “He wouldn’t.”

Lupin holds his hands up in surrender, the bottle of brandy still held in his left hand. “I believe you. I only felt obligated to ask.”

“You shouldn’t have to feel any sense of obligation towards me,” Darcy continues, looking into the fire. She wishes he would just give her the brandy, but Lupin keeps it close at hand, letting it sit in his lap, keeping it away from her almost protectively.

“Come on, Darcy,” Lupin says in a low voice, smiling a small smile that makes Darcy feel she’s being stupid. “You’re James’ daughter. Of course I feel a sense of obligation towards you.”

“I didn’t ask to be James’ daughter,” she hisses. Lupin’s clearly caught off guard by this, his mouth slightly open, as if wanting to say something, but thinking better of his. His brow is furrowed, and there’s a slightly ruffled and disheveled look to him that Darcy finds endearing. She hates it—or rather, she hates herself for thinking it. “Nor did my father ask for me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Were my parents ashamed of me?” Darcy asks him, dropping all pretense. She doesn’t feel she even needs brandy now—now that she’s started, she knows she will finish. “Did they speak of me fondly in front of others? Did they even love each other? Or was it only me that kept them grudgingly together?”

Lupin stammers incoherently, clearly at a complete loss for words. “Why would you ask that? Why would you think that?”

“You don’t have to be so afraid of hurting my feelings with the truth.”

He heaves a great sigh. “Your parents loved you very much . . . you have to understand the situation they were in, Darcy. They were young and drunk and, in the moment . . .” Lupin gives her a sideways look, gauging her reaction, probably expecting her to cry. “They were well-liked students, admired by our teachers and peers. But there is no denying the . . . stigma associated with the situation. Not that they were the only ones! There were two girls, I think, in seventh year when I was in first . . . and a sixth year when I was in seventh.”

Darcy is quiet for a moment, trying to imagine herself in Lily’s shoes. Did people whisper behind her back in the corridors? Did people snicker while she did something as innocent as eat dinner? Darcy’s known all of those things before, and thinks—if it were her child—she would be so full of love that it wouldn’t matter what people thought of her.

“James kept a picture of you on his bedside cabinet,” Lupin says, smiling fondly at the memory of his old friend. “It never moved from that spot, where everyone could see it. His greatest adventure, he used to called you.”

“And my mother?”

“Your mother was never very open about her private life to begin with.” His smile falters at the look of desperation on her face. “A few people she shared things with, but not many. She and I got along fairly well during school, and she had always been eager to show me pictures.”

“And yourself? What were you like in school?”

Lupin rubs the back of his neck, a pink tint to his cheeks. “Ah . . . what do you want to know about that for? It’s not very exciting, and you know enough already, don’t you?”

“Why did my father hate Professor Snape so much?” Darcy asks abruptly, and Lupin looks very awkward, shifting in his chair.

“What did Severus tell you, Darcy?” He seems suddenly very serious, his face darkening.

Darcy doesn’t answer, and doesn’t falter when she looks into his eyes.

Looking as though very reluctant to answer her question, he gives a resigned sigh and Darcy knows that she’s won. “You’re a very kind girl, and I wouldn’t expect you to understand . . .”

“Understand what?” Darcy urges, leaning forward slightly. “That my father was a bully?”

Lupin’s jaw clenches, and almost looks as though she’s hit him. “Severus was not innocent,” he says. “He was fascinated with the Dark Arts the moment he set foot in Hogwarts, and James hated the Dark Arts . . . whatever Severus may have told you, James’ dislike was not unwarranted. The company he kept, nearly all of them became Death Eaters after graduating.”

“That didn’t answer my question. Was my father a bully? Did he or did he not bully Snape?”

“Darcy . . .”

“Remus.”

“Darcy,” Lupin says again, his voice a low growl. “James might have been a bit of an idiot when he was a boy, maybe a little arrogant and prone to getting carried away, but he was a good man, despite what Severus may have told you. He grew into the role of a good father, matured in a way Severus has clearly not.” There’s an uncharacteristic sneer on his face, as if Darcy’s to blame for something, but she doesn’t know what.

“What is that supposed to mean, then?” Darcy scoffs.

“Anything to get back at James, even with him gone, yes?” he snarls at her. “Including turning his only daughter again him and his friends. I can’t even bear to picture the expression on James’ face if he knew about the way Snape treats you.”

“He isn’t turning me against you,” Darcy snaps, jumping to Snape’s defense without even thinking. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what he’s doing,” Lupin continues recklessly. “Touching you in front of us to revel in the fact that you allow him to, rubbing it in our faces. He thinks he’s won you, like you’re some kind of prize to be won. As if winning your favor is supposed to insult Sirius and I, and James beyond the grave. Severus doesn’t give a damn about your feelings—”

“I disagree,” Darcy interrupts. While Lupin’s words sting her, she knows there is little truth in them, only bitterness. “I think Professor Snape cares much more for me than you could possibly know. You don’t think he’s using me, you just want it to be so, that way I don’t care about him anymore.”

“He cares for you, does he? As a father might care for a daughter?” Lupin hisses. “You know exactly what he wants from you.”

“And what is that?”

“He wants to fuck you, doesn’t he?”

Darcy blinks in surprise, his choice of words and the bluntness with which he speaks them catching her off guard. “You think Snape wants to fuck me?” she whispers, frowning.

Lupin grinds his teeth, taking another long drink of brandy before setting it on the table. “Don’t play coy, Darcy. You know you’re beautiful, you know that Severus is fond of you to a fault, and you don’t seem to be very uncomfortable with the idea of him touching you. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Cling to men who show you affection? Fuck them when you want to feel loved?”

“Is that what you think? You think I fucked you because I wanted to feel validated?” Darcy opens and closes her mouth, wanting to say so much more, but not sure how to continue. Lupin doesn’t seem ready to continue, either, his cheeks flushed red, as if he regrets what he’s said to her. “If that’s what you think, then I have nothing more to say to you.”

As Darcy gets to her feet and crosses the room, Lupin calls out to her before she can leave completely. “I’m going back. To the werewolves,” he says. “In two weeks.”

Darcy closes her eyes, her back to Lupin. Fuck him, she thinks, but not really. She hates him for knowing her so fucking well, hates him for using her love for him to keep from walking away. “Okay,” she rasps, forcing herself not to turn around. “Be careful. Sorry I’ve ruined everything.”

Lupin exhales loudly through his nose. “Gemma’s been working on getting enough of her potion to bring to the community. She thinks it may entice others to join us, for the price of a little less pain every month.”

Darcy looks over her shoulder at him. “I hope everything works out.”

“Well,” Lupin says savagely, getting to his feet, voice sharp as the crack of a whip. “If I don’t make it back this time, at least Severus will offer you a shoulder to cry on for a few minutes before he convinces you I’m not worth it.”

Infuriated, she rounds on him, her heart beating a violent tattoo against her chest. “You’re a coward, you know that?”

This time he flinches as if she really has hit him. “It makes me a coward for following Dumbledore’s orders, does it?”

“You’re a coward for not being able to tell the truth about my father, and for not being able to tell me how you feel about me. You insult Snape and you guilt trip me because you want me to feel sorry for you. All you do is feel sorry for yourself—isn’t that enough for you?” Darcy takes a deep breath, steadying herself. “Do you want to know why I fucked you? Because I thought it would make you love me again. Because I loved you so much and didn’t know how else to show it.”

Lupin looks away from her, and she’s pleased to see him squirm.

“You want to know why I fucked Oliver?”

“No, not particularly.”

“Because you were too much of a coward to tell me you loved me when you interrupted our date.” Darcy takes a step forward, blushing. “I would never allow Snape to touch me the way you have. I would never love him the way I loved you. You think I have forgotten the ugly thing branded on his forearm? He has done things I will never forgive, one of them being the fact that he outed you. Do you think I’ve forgotten it’s because of him that Sirius is stuck here with a bounty still on his head?”

“I told you how I feel, Darcy,” Lupin protests, visibly wounded. “I told you exactly how I feel for you when you were here for Christmas.”

“And once you got me into bed, all talk of feelings ceased, didn’t they?” Darcy pushes him backwards. Lupin stumbles, scowling at her. “Do you love me or not?”

“Darcy . . .” Lupin shakes his head slightly. “I told you I didn’t want to do this . . .”

“Neither did I. I just wanted an answer about my father, and you couldn’t even give me that.”

“You want an answer? Fine, yes—your father could be a bully at times, but he grew out of it. He grew up and realized that he was—”

“And did you ever do anything to stop him?”

Lupin pales in the firelight. “No, I didn’t. I was too afraid to stand up to my friends because I was a coward. Are you happy now?”

“No, I’m not happy.”

“Clearly,” he replies mildly. “Never happy, are you? Nothing anyone does could ever please Darcy Potter. Nothing is ever good enough for you, is it?”

Darcy crosses her arms, lifting her eyebrows. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I did everything I could to take care of you—everything I ever did for you was because I loved you and I wanted you to be happy,” Lupin throws at her, scowling again. “And all of that was for nothing. Everything I did only pushed you further and further into Severus’ arms, all while you denied your feelings for him and his for you.”

She can think of nothing to say to this. Doesn’t Lupin realize how in love with him she was? How, when she was stuck in Snape’s classroom all day, she thought of nothing but being with Lupin, nothing but touching him and kissing him and snuggling up to him at night. Doesn’t he realize that she wanted to marry him so badly? To be someone’s wife—to be his wife? Darcy tries to picture herself as his wife, as anyone’s wife, but it’s hard—all she can picture is herself dressed in Aunt Petunia’s clothes, an apron wrapped around her skinny waist, serving food to her husband and child, flipping through gossip magazines and spying on the neighbors from the windows. She doesn’t want that—she doesn’t want to be that . . . Her heart begins to pound unnaturally fast again.

“Darcy?”

Lupin’s suddenly concerned voice brings her back out of her reverie, back to the drawing room. She doesn’t need to ask him why he’s sounding so concerned, however, as something drips on her lip and Darcy holds her hand up to her face as Lupin rushes over to her.

She blushes hard, her cheeks stinging from embarrassment. Lupin searches his pockets frantically, hands coming up empty, so in an awfully bold move, he pulls Darcy’s hands away from her face and wipes the blood off her mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Sit down. I’ll get you something to wipe it with.”

Darcy obeys without hesitation, seating herself on the sofa, holding her nose and pinching the bridge painfully, wishing Lupin wouldn’t come back to this humiliating scene. But he does, with a wet cloth, handing it over to Darcy and excusing himself once more. The second time he comes back, it’s with a steaming mug of hot cocoa, and Darcy is so thankful she could cry. Lupin sits beside her and touches her hand, lifting the cloth to take a look. There certainly isn’t as much blood as last time.

“Just . . . keep that there for a few moments. It doesn’t seem so bad.” Lupin looks her over warily. “Tilt your head back, love. It’ll help.”

Again, she does as she’s told. “Sorry,” she rasps. “I don’t know why it’s happening. You don’t have to stay.”

“You just got worked up, that’s all,” Lupin explains gently, a completely different man than he had been five minutes ago. “I used to get nosebleeds when I started Hogwarts. My fear of being a werewolf among innocent people . . . it quite literally made me sick sometimes.”

Darcy only looks at him, feeling very much a child in the moment.

“I’m sorry, Darcy,” he continues after a moment, his voice soft and sweet and hoarse. “I shouldn’t have said those things.”

“Did you mean them?”

Lupin swallows loudly, frowning. “No, of course not.” He sets her hot cocoa on the table, holding his hands in his lap. “Of course I didn’t . . . no, Darcy. I’m sorry.”

“Then why would you say that?” Darcy asks, and he shifts uncomfortably again.

“I don’t know . . .” Lupin holds his face in his hands, running his fingers through his shaggy hair. “You have every right to yell at me right now, so . . . please, just do it.”

Darcy pulls the cloth away, wiping the leftover blood on her face before putting it away. She reaches greedily for her hot cocoa, taking the first sip and immediately tasting the warm, pleasant burning sensation of firewhisky spill down her throat. In spite of herself, she smiles weakly. “Thank you,” she says, and Lupin narrows his eyes at her.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

She doesn’t want to bother him any further. She doesn’t know why she isn’t more angry with the words he’d just spat in her face. Is it because Darcy knows there’s truth to them? “I didn’t mean to . . . I didn’t mean to fight with you.”

“Don’t apologize,” Lupin says quickly. “It wasn’t your fault.” He’s quiet for a moment, leaning against the sofa, watching her with tired looking eyes. “I hate fighting with you, Darcy. I am so sorry for what I said.”

She hates herself for saying it. “It’s okay.”

Lupin looks as if he knows what he said was entirely not okay. “You should get some sleep.”

Neither of them make a move to get up. Darcy wants to tell him she’d sleep much better beside him, wants to tell him she’d rather sit here in comfortable silence with him until sleep takes her and she wakes with her head on his chest. As if voicing these thoughts aloud, they both look away from each other, their cheeks pink, as if the offer to sleep beside each other is dangling just above them, but no one wants to make the reach for it.

Darcy feels as if she’s a student again, remembering the times sitting upon Lupin’s sofa with him, their hands accidentally touching or their knees bumping—the furious blushing that would ensue, the nervous and breathless laughter, butterflies going mad in her stomach. She had relished those touches, the touches after she had kissed him for the first time, after Lupin knew how she felt about him. She wishes she could back to that day—Darcy wonders if she’d actually kiss him, knowing it would one day be like this. Or maybe she’d kiss him a little harder, savor the few months they would spend together underneath Hogwarts’ roof.

“I should be getting back upstairs,” Darcy says suddenly, setting down her half-empty mug. “I’m feeling tired.”

She pauses for a moment, hoping without any real effort that Lupin will ask her to stay with him, to sleep with him, to be with him. But he doesn’t, so Darcy returns back to her bed with Gemma, which—right now—is just as good.

* * *

“. . . girl has enough on her plate as it is. It’s only a matter of time before that—” (Darcy doesn’t realize Professor McGonagall’s vocabulary included such offensive words) “—forces through another decree making it an imprisonable offense for speaking one’s mind.” There’s a heavy pause. “That is the clear end goal, it seems. Sending Potter to Azkaban.”

“Seems Fudge is in two minds right now,” Kingsley’s deep voice says. “I don’t think he really believes Darcy’s there to lead a resistance against the Ministry for Dumbledore, but he certainly doesn’t want to take any chances. He’d sleep much easier at night not having to worry about her. But on the other hand . . . keeping her at Hogwarts, where Umbridge is able to keep a close watch on her . . .”

“Fudge may want to keep her at Hogwarts, but Umbridge’s aim to send her to Azkaban. Questioning her, torturing her, searching her room,” Professor McGonagall retorts. “And Dumbledore won’t tell you why it’s so important she remains at Hogwarts, Severus? It’s not as if she has nowhere else to go.”

“He has instructed me to keep an eye on her, nothing more, though I assume he wants her close to her brother,” Snape answers smoothly. “Setting Darcy loose upon the world with no proper supervision or discipline would be most unwise, however.”

“She isn’t a child,” Sirius snaps. Darcy sighs, adjusting the string of the Extendable Ear in her own ear. “Darcy would be perfectly fine here.”

“She is not meant to be caged, Black,” Snape hisses, and Darcy has to agree with him. “Those of us that know her would agree.”

“Arthur and I would be happy to have her at our home,” Mrs. Weasley pipes up happily, but it sounds very forced. “A change of scenery might do her some good . . . and we’ve a nice, big yard if she doesn’t want to be inside . . .”

“She already has a home here,” Sirius protests loudly. “This is Darcy’s home.”

“Hogwarts is Darcy’s home,” Emily says suddenly. She’s been quiet for so long, Darcy has forgotten she was even in there. “Wherever Harry is, that’s home to her. Even if she does hate it there.”

“I don’t like it,” McGonagall says again sadly. “Keeping her at Hogwarts is just as much caging her as it is to keep her here. That’s all the girl has known—giving her to those awful Muggles . . . what was Dumbledore thinking? I remember when she first came to Hogwarts . . . remember, Severus? The day of her Sorting? Wet from rain, severely underfed, a bruise upon her cheek . . . a drowned and beaten pup.”

“It’s all to keep Harry safe,” Kingsley answers, sounding unsettled. “It always has been. They need to be together.”

“Is there no other way to keep Harry safe than at Darcy’s expense?” McGonagall asks again.

They haven’t even spoken of anything interesting. The meeting has been going on for nearly half an hour now, and they’ve spoken only of Darcy. While she’s sure they all mean well—especially Professor McGonagall—Darcy feels as if they all probably think her crazy. They argue about what should be done with her, what they could do to help, what Dumbledore could possibly do, and sometimes they just talk about how sad she is.

Darcy doesn’t particularly want to hear anymore, so she returns the Extendable Ear to her bedroom, hiding it under her bed, and then retreats downstairs to the drawing room. Stashed away on a shelf is her book of music, and she flips through the sheet music lazily, looking for a song that might be relatively easy. When she finds an unmarked one and begins to play a rather plain song, she’s sure the Order hears her, for the meeting adjourns soon after the start of the song, and neither Lupin nor Snape wander over to listen, leaving her with a disappointed feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She leaves the drawing room when the front door closes again, hoping to sneak up to her bedroom unnoticed. To her surprise, Emily is already waiting for her on the bed, already opening a fresh bottle of nail polish. “Get me a towel, Darcy,” she says, pointing to one thrown over the desk chair unceremoniously. Darcy throws it at her, sitting in the empty chair. “How did the Extendable Ear work?”

“Fine. I heard everything. Though, I thought I was going to be hearing something important.”

“Shut up, you are important. I think McGonagall saw right through my fake wand movement when she asked me to make the door Imperturbable. Don’t think you’ll get so lucky next time.” She looks up at Darcy only for a moment before returning to her fingernails. “You okay? Lupin said you showed up here last night with a bloody nose out of nowhere. You haven’t had nosebleeds since second year, Darcy.”

“You didn’t tell him that, did you?” Darcy asks quickly, blushing again, unable to stop herself.

“No,” Emily answers without looking up from her fingernails. “I figured if you hadn’t told him, then there was probably a reason.”

“Yeah, I don’t want him to be unbearably cautious around me like I’m a broken kid, and I don’t want him to worry.” Darcy touches her nose gently, as if expecting blood to suddenly flow. Fortunately, her fingers come back dry. “We got into a huge fight last night.”

“Not about the article?” Emily asks with a slight frown, and Darcy tells Emily what they’d fought about, what Lupin had said to her, how she had reacted, how her nose had started bleeding and it had suddenly changed Lupin back into the man she knows and loves. Emily listens to it all, looking more than outraged, hardly able to paint her nails anymore with her hands shaking with anger. “He should _never_ have said those things to you. And what a liar—he’s just bluffing. He and Dumbledore haven’t settled on a date to return to the werewolves. Lupin told Gemma and Gemma told me that they’re waiting for the article to be published and they need as much potion as possible, so if he is leaving, it isn’t going to be for weeks.”

Darcy scoffs, feeling very angry despite having wondered if it was true or not. “He lied to me?”

“Remus Lupin wants someone to feel sorry for him,” Emily says, announcing it as if it’s the heading to an explosive new article. “Is that really so surprising to you? Maybe he’s gotten tired of doing it all himself. Gemma thinks he’s just using his wounded animal routine because he knows it’ll work on you.”

“Damn him,” Darcy sighs, leaning back in her chair and looking up at the ceiling. “It totally does work on me.”

Emily looks at Darcy with a cocked eyebrow, as if repulsed by what she’s just said, but decides against arguing. “He’s jealous, you know. Jealous of you and Snape.” Emily puts the nail polish away, looking as if she’s bursting to say something.

“What?” Darcy asks, looking back at Emily with her eyes narrowed. Thinking she has an idea what this is about, she sighs, shrugging her shoulders. “Go on, Emily. Ask what you need to.”

It spills from her. “Has anything happened between you and Snape? Please tell me no—not that I’d judge you or anything, but Snape is kind of . . . well, you know . . . he’s . . . Snape.”

“Trust me, I haven’t forgotten that fact,” Darcy says, and she finds herself laughing along with Emily without warning, as if they’re fifteen again, abusing Snape beneath the shade of a tree after a particularly daunting Potions lesson. When their laughter dies down, Darcy shrugs her shoulders. “Snape and I . . . we’re friends, that’s all. Remus and Sirius just can’t grasp that fact, I think. They want to think he must be taking advantage of me, I’m sure. Please don’t listen to anything they say about him.”

Emily purses her lips at the mention of Sirius’ name. Darcy doesn’t fail to notice.

“And stop trying to flirt with my godfather!”

Flushing a deep scarlet, Emily bristles. “I’m not flirting with Sirius.”

“You are.”

“Are not.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Darcy grumbles, rolling her eyes. “Tell you what—you keep Tonks away from Remus, and you can flirt with Sirius all you want.”

Emily looks to be almost considering this for a moment, eyes flashing with excitement at Darcy’s approval. “Maybe it would be good for you if someone else distracted him for a little bit,” she suggests with a comforting looking smile. “You’ve got more important things to focus on other than pining after Lupin. Like, your article is going to be published soon! That’s exciting, isn’t it?”

“It got me yelled at, scolded, and I’ve ruined everything with it.”

“You know he’s only angry you didn’t tell him,” Emily replies soothingly.

“And maybe we should have done,” Darcy retorts bitterly, making Emily frown again. “If anyone could have helped me with it, it was him. We were stupid not to include the one werewolf we know while writing an article about werewolves. And maybe, if we had told him, he would have talked me out of it and we’d be able to be together again.”

“Once the article is published and he actually reads it, he’ll calm down. He’s overreacting.”

“No, he’s right.” Darcy looks away, out of the grimy window. “He’s always right. How could I have been so stupid . . . I’m going to pay for this, aren’t I?”

“You already know the kinds of letters people will send. People will be angry for a few days and it’ll subside.”

“I don’t care about other people being angry at me,” she confesses, looking at Emily with eyes shining with tears. “I just don’t want Remus to be angry at me. Without him, I . . .” Darcy hesitates, not wanting to admit to Emily that she doesn’t think she can live without Lupin, with a man. “I just want him to be happy.”

“That’s selfless of you, Darcy. But I don’t know what I expected from you.” Emily grins wickedly. “A much quicker way to win him back would be to just kiss Snape. Lupin would have no choice but to take you back so it doesn’t happen again.”

Darcy snorts. “As if I’d ever put my lips close enough to Snape to let him kiss me.” It’s not entirely a lie, Darcy thinks. She wouldn’t ever let him kiss her. “You’ve been spending too much time with Gemma.”

“Yeah, well . . . she makes some good points . . .”


	47. Chapter 47

Despite Darcy’s weak protest of “it’s okay” when Lupin had apologized for his cruel words Friday night, he seems to be doing almost everything possible to make it up to her. After the meeting finishes on Saturday, Lupin offers to read to her from one of the books he’d gotten her for Christmas, asks if she’d like him to run her a bath when he notices she looks a little tired, offers to look over some of the first year homework she’s brought home to grade, and even insists on buying her more film for her camera (which she takes him up on, hoping for some peace and quiet before bed). Instead of just returning with film, however, Lupin returns with his arms full of things—film, fresh food for a decent dinner, chocolates, and flowers, which she hastily pushes on Darcy with a rather flustered look about him.

“Flowers?” Gemma asks a little while later when she waltzes through the front door as if it’s her own home. Darcy takes her coat, muttering wildly about Lupin’s overbearing and annoying nature, keeping details of their argument private for the time being. “Last time he sent you flowers, he was trying to get you back, wasn’t he?”

Darcy blushes, shrugging awkwardly, and when Gemma smiles and walks away, it seems she has no more to say on the matter.

He cooks her dinner late Saturday evening, and after hearty protests from both Gemma (who had only stopped by for dinner, she insists) and Sirius that he’d not thought to make _them_ any dinner, Lupin grudgingly makes food for the rest of the house. It’s a friendly dinner—as Gemma and Sirius have not been told of Darcy and Lupin’s argument, the atmosphere is light and fun as opposed to what could have been a very resentful and angry atmosphere. Gemma and Sirius also fill a lot of the silences, swapping stories about Darcy and Lupin, respectively. This only makes Darcy and Lupin blush furiously upon hearing some of the stories from their later years at Hogwarts—drinking stories, mostly, or stories of escapades with girls and boys. Gemma recalls a story about Darcy and Oliver, and Darcy has to cover her face to hide the terrible flush upon her face.

“There was that one girl you were sweet on in seventh year,” Sirius calls happily, holding his glass of wine up, clearly drunk. Lupin raises his eyebrows, looking unenthused. “The Ravenclaw girl. Pretty blonde girl. What was her name?”

Lupin looks up sheepishly and clears his throat, eyes meeting Darcy’s for a split second, downing the wine in his glass and pouring more. “It doesn’t matter, Padfoot. That was years ago.”

Darcy smiles in spite of herself, and the rest of dinner passes with no more talk of old girlfriends or boyfriends. When they all finish, Gemma is the first out the door, headed for home, and Sirius excuses himself before anyone can ask him to help clean up, muttering about having to feed Buckbeak. Lupin moves to take her empty plate from in front of her, but Darcy shakes her head.

“I’ll clean up. You cooked,” she says, getting to her feet.

“No, I don’t mind.”

“Really, Remus, it’s all right,” Darcy chuckles, admiring his still pink face. “I’ll clean up.”

“I’ll help you,” he insists, preparing to hand wash the dishes they’d eaten with and all the mess he’d made cooking. “It’ll be quicker together.”

“I was just going to use magic,” Darcy says quietly, a smiling ghosting across her lips. She hopes he doesn’t see it, wanting Lupin to think she’s still mad at him, but by the small smile he gives her in return over his shoulder, she knows it’s too late. “It’ll be much quicker that way.”

“Do you have an important date?” he asks teasingly, keeping his back turned towards her. “Somewhere to be that you can’t take ten minutes out of your day to hand wash dishes?”

“Lazy, more like,” Darcy answers truthfully, wanting to leave the kitchen as soon as possible. Not that she really wants to leave his side so quickly (and still Darcy struggles very deeply with her undeniable need for her after last night’s conversation), but she’s tired and in need of sleep. “Dinner was really good.”

“No it wasn’t,” Lupin laughs. “I know the lamb was too well done for you, but thank you for dutifully eating it and complimenting me anyway.”

Darcy blushes. “It was fine, really. Better than fine. It was good.”

“Here, come dry these.” He nods towards the dripping plates and cutlery. Darcy searches in the cupboards for a few clean-looking rags, beginning to dry the dishes, shoulder to shoulder with Lupin. “Er—I’m sorry if you hate the flowers . . . I saw them and thought . . . well, I thought you’d like them, and since I’ve had some extra spending money lately, I thought—”

“They’re lovely,” Darcy answers truthfully, smiling at him. “They’ll look nice in my room at Hogwarts. Or I could keep them here, in the drawing room. That way, even if you’re doing something stupid, you’ll see them and think of me.”

Lupin smiles, clearly relieved. “I always think of you.”

“Are you going to tell me about this girl? This pretty blonde Ravenclaw you were so taken with?” Darcy asks playfully, looking back up at him and taking her time drying the dishes.

A bitter smile graces his face, and he looks tense suddenly. “Sirius doesn’t remember, and I don’t blame him,” Lupin confesses softly, determinedly not looking at her. “She fancied Sirius, not me. James had thrown me a birthday party, and I had finally summoned the courage to ask her to come after weeks of avoiding her. She came, and she was very sweet to me, but . . . things got out of hand, alcohol was consumed, Sirius was too good-looking for his own good, and there were just one too many dark and shadowy corners for people to drunkenly kiss each other.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Darcy frowns. “When I was fourteen, I had this huge crush. He was a seventh year . . . _older_.” They both chuckle at the way she places emphasis on the word, wriggling her eyebrows. “He wanted nothing to do with me. I recited poetry and he sneered, but when Emily did it, he loved it. I told him I thought he was cute, he told me he didn’t like redheads. I told him I liked him, and he told me he liked Emily. My first heartbreak.” Darcy suddenly laughs, and Lupin gives her a puzzled look. “I never chased after another boy after that. Unless I count you, of course.”

“Did you chase after me?” Lupin asks casually, lifting an eyebrow.

“According to my standards, yes, I did—by all means—chase after you,” Darcy admits, blushing. “I was getting tired of you not kissing me, and you didn’t seem to have any intention of doing so.”

Lupin laughs outloud, warming Darcy’s bones. “Believe it or not, you made me very nervous, and when I wasn’t thinking about kissing you, I was thinking about how you would likely never want me to kiss you, anyway.”

“Did I not make it obvious enough, that all I wanted was for you to kiss me?” Darcy teases, wondering if she’s taking it too far.

Tugging at the collar of his sweater distractedly, the tips of his fingers still wet and soapy, he clears his throat. “No, no . . . I mean, I knew what you wanted, but I . . . I was not prepared to have had a student want me, nor was I prepared for _you_ to want me . . .” Lupin gives her a helpless kind of look. “Women have never been one of my strong suits. It’s not as if girls were lining up to go out with me in school like boys were with you, and considering my . . . you know . . . I wasn’t trying to rush into anything, either. They’d only think I was . . . some kind of monster or something.”

Darcy chews her lower lip for a moment, a hundred thoughts going through her head. “Boys weren’t lining up to go out with me,” Darcy says softly, wanting to get that straight first before saying anything else. “Maybe people thought I was pretty, but they all thought I was crazy when they got to know me—or tried to. I had secrets, too.”

“I didn’t think you were crazy,” Lupin tells her quickly, as if wanting to establish this now rather than later. “I still don’t think you’re crazy.”

Darcy smiles. “Thanks,” she laughs. “It’s part of the reason I liked you so much. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think you’re a monster, and I’m probably very qualified to say so.”

Lupin looks at her again, smiling incredulously, looking disbelieving, but pleased. “Hear anything interesting in today’s meeting?” he asks her mildly after a minute of silence.

“What do you mean?” Darcy says quickly, focusing very intently upon the plate she’s drying.

“You had the Extendable Ear on the writing desk when I went to check for you earlier,” Lupin grins shiftily, giving her a sideways look, but when she doesn’t smile back at him, he falters. He scrubs slowly at a plate, licking his lips. “We’re all just worried about you, Darcy. You aren’t going anywhere, so don’t worry. You’ll stay at Hogwarts until the year ends, and we’ll bring you straight here afterwards next summer. I promise, there won’t be any waiting around next time.”

Darcy hums in response, unsure of what to say.

“Darcy, I just want you to know,” he continues, passing her the last of the silverware and wiping his hands on the front of his sweater. “Your father was an . . . extraordinary man. He was charismatic and smart, giving and open-minded and loving. James died trying to protect you, Harry, and your mother. He would not have hesitated to die for his friends, either.” Lupin turns slightly to face her, leaning against the counter. “The article you’ve written . . . it’s reminiscent of something that James might have done.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to do it,” Darcy mutters, more bitter than intended.

“James did a lot of stupid things when he was young,” Lupin says, his voice patient and void of any anger or annoyance or bitterness. “But believe me, Darcy, your father was a good man, a good friend, a good father. Lily wouldn’t have stuck by him if he wasn’t.”

Darcy lowers the plate in her hands before putting it away. “I just . . . every time someone told me I was like dad, I . . . I felt it was something to be proud of.”

“It is something to be proud of. You should be very proud.”

“Remus?”

“Hm?” Darcy doesn’t fail to notice the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips at the sound of his name. “What is it, Darcy?”

“You lied about going back to the werewolves,” she says, and while Darcy notices Lupin visibly tense, her tone is not accusing or angry. “Emily said you might not go back for weeks.”

Lupin flushes, and Darcy thinks he looks more handsome when flustered. His scruffy beard hides his blush rather well, hand jumping to the back of his neck. “All right, fine,” he sighs. “I didn’t want you leave. I thought you’d talk to me if you thought I’d be leaving soon. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have lied.”

“You should have just told me that,” Darcy says, raising her eyebrows. “I’m under enough stress as it is without also having to worry about you.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Lupin replies, and Darcy thinks he looks privately very pleased with himself. There’s something about her words that make him suddenly look years younger, almost smug and boyish. “I think I can handle myself.”

Darcy narrows her eyes at him. “You came back last time covered in blood and fresh wounds,” she reminds him. “Is that what you call handling yourself?”

“But I didn’t die, did I?”

She looks quickly away from him. “Don’t say that.” Darcy clears her throat, glancing towards the door. Lowering her voice and blushes, she adds, “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t lose me,” Lupin replies firmly, so confident in his answer. He reaches out hesitantly, his hand hovering awkwardly in the air between them. And finally, giving a resigned sigh, touches her shoulder, his thumb fingering the raised scars beneath the fabric of her shirt.

He seems slightly encouraged by the way she stills, not pulling away from his touch or flinching away. It’s an intimate touch, she decides, especially when his callused and rough fingertips ghost up her neck and make goosebumps rise on her skin. He traces the line of her jaw as he had done that night in April all those years ago (or so it seems), his index finger learning the curve of her lips (as if he doesn’t know the exact shape of them already), touching her with wary curiosity, as if he’s never seen or touched anything like her before. Judging by the expression on Lupin’s face, it seems as if each touch physically pains him, but Darcy loves it, despite everything. She closes her eyes to avoid looking at the apologetic way he gazes down at her, to appreciate the feel of his fingers, wishing very briefly that those long fingers would wrap around her throat, slip between her lips, touch in her a less innocent way than this, brushing the backs of his fingers against her cheek bone.

When Darcy’s eyes flutter open again, it’s to find a startling sight. With his warm hand still cupping her cheek, she knows the words that are building on his tongue before he even needs to say them, and he’s crying—eyes suddenly red-rimmed and shining.

“I’m sorry,” Lupin rasps, lowering his hand from her face. “I’m so sorry, my love . . .” And again, without warning, he falls into her.

Darcy stumbles backwards, stumbling as she attempts to hold him upright. He buries his face into her neck, the coarse hair on his face rubbing against her skin, his arms snaking around her waist to hold her close. She stands there awkwardly for a moment, hands pressed against his arms, and at the feel of strong, toned muscle beneath, Darcy cannot help but to wrap her slender fingers around Lupin’s biceps, left breathless just by touching him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Darcy rests her cheek to his forehead, waiting for him to make the first move to pull away, but he doesn’t seem prepared to take that first step, his arms holding her in a pincer-like grip—not that Darcy minds much, but she feels it speaks volumes that she does not push him away despite all he’d said to her.

“Remus . . .” she whispers, combing the back of his hair flat with her fingers. “It’s all right . . .”

“All I’ve done to you—”

The rest of his speech is incoherent, muffled against her neck, tickling her, making chills run up her spine at the feel of his his lips on her flesh. Darcy runs her fingers through his hair—she understands the gist of what he’s trying to say, the same thing he’d told her that same April night so long ago now. Darcy finds it ridiculous that he might think she would ever flinch away from his touch, that she would ever do anything but fall into him and love him and need him whenever he touches her. She wants to say these things to him, to reassure him, but finds the words do not come easily, especially not with the lump forming in her throat.

“It’s okay,” she finally manages, and it’s these words that make Lupin pull away from her, standing up straight again.

He looks half a broken man, worn down by years of stress (though Darcy thinks maybe it’s more so due to the lycanthropy), far older than the young man he really is. Darcy wonders if Dumbledore’s orders and missions are beginning to take a toll on him—she wonders if it was being with the werewolves for six weeks, or (with a pleasurable rolling of her stomach that makes her feel guilty) if it’s the fact that he is lost without her. All right, maybe it’s not that, but Darcy still wants to believe it’s her that’s hurting him so badly. Though the thought makes her sick, considering all she wants to do is make him the happiest he’s ever been, comfort him through everything.

“Remus, what—?” Darcy exhales through her long nose, frowning at him, brushing his hair off his warm forehead. “You should get some sleep. Take a few days off and catch up on your rest.”

“I’m fine, just . . .” Lupin sighs, turning his back on her.

“Go sit down by the fire. I’ll bring you some tea. Gemma still has that expensive stuff she bought at the market hidden in my room. She won’t mind.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, smiling weakly all the same, glancing sideways at her.

Darcy licks her lips, pausing. With a shaking hand, she grips his arm once more, resisting the urge to squeeze his bicep again, just to feel his muscle. “I want to,” she whispers. “Remus, look at me.”

He does, reluctantly. Darcy touches his face, lifting herself to her tiptoes and kissing his cheek. He smiles in earnest, shy and sheepish, eyes closing when her lips touch his skin, blushing in the dim light.

After she kisses him, the awkwardness seems to evaporate, and once Darcy brings him a steaming hot mug of tea, courtesy of Gemma’s expensive tea leaves hidden in the desk drawer of Darcy’s bedroom, they seemingly—without even talking about it—fall back into old routine and comforting silence. Darcy stretches her long legs out on the sofa in the drawing room, and Lupin settles between them (a bold move, she thinks, but one she doesn’t mind in the slightest), his head on her stomach, legs hanging awkwardly over the arm of the sofa, but he doesn’t complain.

Darcy rakes her fingers through his hair as she’s done so many times before, and his eyes close after a few minutes, curled up against her. “Does Sirius hate me?” she asks quietly, looking towards the open door of the drawing room as if expecting him to appear there. “He’s barely spoken to me all day.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Lupin mumbles sleepily. “He hates Severus, and that will never change. He’s spent too much time in Azkaban brooding on the past for his feelings to change overnight, and I’m sure he’s bitter that Severus gets you for the better part of the year when he’d rather you be here instead.” After another few minutes of tired silence, he adds, “I can’t say I blame him.”

Darcy looks down at him, half his face thrown into shadow, the other half tinted orange by the fire. “Do you want to know the stupid thing I did? Or one of the more stupider things, anyway?”

“Indulge me.”

She laughs softly, unsure why laughter is her first reaction to something so completely and utterly unfunny. “I went into Snape’s office a little while ago and he had . . . this thing in there, Dumbledore’s Pensieve. Do you know what it is?”

With his eyes still closed, Lupin says, “Tell me.”

“It’s this . . . well, Professor Snape said you could take a copy of a memory, or even the original, and place it into this . . . bowl of sorts, and you can watch them from a different perspective. He showed me how it worked—we went into my memory of him explaining to me what the Pensieve was.” It suddenly occurs to her that Lupin may not want to hear this story at all. Surely he doesn’t want to hear about her parents’ murder? Surely he doesn’t want to have to listen to Darcy describe it? Or bring it up at all? “I’m sorry . . . you know what, I’ve changed my mind . . .”

“No, go on, Darcy,” Lupin says, tilting his head up to look at her through heavy eyelids. It’s almost as if he already knows what she’s going to say. “I want to hear.”

“No, you don’t—”

“How do you know?”

Darcy hesitates, continuing to comb his hair back. “I asked him that night if he could take just one memory from me completely, to make me forget. You know the one I was thinking of, I’m sure.” She looks down at Lupin’s face, glad his eyes are closed again. “Professor Snape did, too. He refused me, claiming that not having that one memory would change me, that the memory has made me who I am and it would be unwise to remove it.”

“Quite possibly the wisest thing Severus has ever said,” Lupin murmurs, not sounding angry, but it’s definitely a slight. Darcy decides to ignore it, finding it difficult to be angry at him with his head in her lap.

“Anyway, I didn’t ask about it after that, but . . . it was while you were away with the werewolves. I think Professor Snape misread why I was upset, and he . . . we met in his office that Wednesday night and he told me it was all right to turn around and walk out and not watch, but of course I didn’t. I should have. I should never have watched.”

“You . . . watched? With Severus?”

“I watched, from the moment mum took me out of my bed to Harry’s crib to the moment when Hagrid stole me from Sirius’ arms. Things I had forced myself not to remember . . . maybe some of it wasn’t even real. Maybe it’s just what I wanted to be real. But the parts of it I know were real . . . it was enough.”

Lupin’s face is a little whiter than it had been, and he looks deeply troubled. Darcy regrets telling him almost immediately, and the apology is on the tip of her tongue when he speaks again. “What did Severus say about it?”

“We haven’t spoken of it.” Darcy feels the tears building up painfully in her eyes. “I never should have done it. I should have listened to him, but I didn’t.”

It seems he has no other questions or comments, and he lays still and silent, his head still settled comfortably upon her stomach, hair sticking up where Darcy’s fingers had run through it.

“I need you to know,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to her index and middle fingers, touching Lupin’s cheek, grateful that he gives her a small smile at this gesture. “Professor Snape means a great deal to me, despite all he’s done. When I felt I had no one, I had Professor Snape, even if he didn’t want anything to do with me. He pulled me out of the lake last year . . . I owe him my life.”

“I don’t care what you feel for Severus, nor do I care how Severus feels for you,” Lupin says abruptly, and Darcy’s in half a mind to throw him off her. His tone is cutting, full of impatience. He softens, sighing loudly and running a hand down his face before sitting up to look at her. Darcy pulls her knees to her chest, waiting for him to say something nasty and cruel again. “Just . . . promise me you don’t love him. Promise me you don’t love him the way you loved me.”

“I promise,” Darcy says. “I don’t love him the way I love you, nor will I ever love anyone the way I love you.”

Lupin’s eyes rove over her face, as if trying to search for any sign that she’s lying. But she isn’t, and she’s absolutely sure of it, not a single doubt in her mind. “Are you all right?” he asks her. “I know seeing that memory mustn’t have been easy for you.”

“I’m managing.”

“I’m sorry for what I said, Darcy, truly. It was awful of me, and cruel. I didn’t mean it . . . I was only—I was just—” Lupin struggles with speech for a moment, closing his eyes as if his next words are going to physically pain him. “I was . . . jealous.”

“Right,” she breathes, her heart skipping a beat. “I should probably get to bed now.”

“Goodnight, my love.” Lupin reaches for her hand, giving it a slight squeeze before Darcy pulls away from him, any hope of him asking her to sleep with him tonight somewhat falling flat, and it vanishes completely when she leaves the drawing room without him uttering another word.

Sunday is no better. Lupin still tries to win her forgiveness back with more flowers waiting outside of her bedroom door in the morning and breakfast on the table (this time for he, Darcy, and Sirius) when she comes downstairs. Exasperated, Darcy rubs her temples, and Lupin’s smile falters.

“Is it not good?” he asks worriedly, sounding very unlike himself. Lupin puts his fork down, looking over the eggs and bacon critically, as if they’ve fooled him. “I’m sorry, I—”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Darcy says slowly, forcing herself to smile at him. “Please stop doing things for me.”

“What?”

“The flowers, the chocolates, the meals—please stop.”

“Do you . . . not like it? I thought I . . . I thought you’d appreciate—”

“I do appreciate it, very much,” Darcy continues honestly, giving him a very apologetic look. “But please don’t do this just because of what you said. It’s over, and it was said, and it’s fine, just—please stop.”

“Okay, sorry.” Lupin flushes a deep scarlet, looking back down at his plate and picking at his food. He looks like a guilty ten-year-old being scolded, and Darcy feels horribly bad about it. “I just wanted you to know that I didn’t mean it.”

“I know you didn’t,” Darcy replies, flashing him a weak, somewhat reassuring grin. “Listen, let’s just . . . forget it, all right? We’ll just pretend it never happened. Can I see your paper?”

Warily, eyes never leaving hers, Lupin slides the _Daily Prophet_ across the table, and Darcy opens it, hiding herself behind the pages. She hates herself for just wanting to forget he’d ever said such a hurtful thing. If Snape had said something to that effect, or even if Sirius had, Darcy would have wasted no time in shouting at them and then ignoring them for as long as possible. But her heart doesn’t quite beat the same for Snape and Sirius as it does for Lupin, and it’s another thing she hates herself for. She loves him far too much to be angry with him, especially when there is some truth buried in his words, especially when she wants him to love her again just like he used to.

From behind the paper, Darcy picks up a piece of bacon, but it’s so overdone it merely crumbles in her mouth. Rolling her eyes before coming out of hiding, Darcy lowers the paper, smiles at Lupin, and says, “Really good.”

“Shut up,” he groans, refusing to look at her again. “It’s the worst I’ve ever had. I forgot I had it cooking and went to go put those flowers out for you, and—”

“You know I won’t judge you for cooking with magic, right?” Darcy chuckles, unable to help herself.

Looking rather shifty, Lupin mutters, “Gemma said women like men who can cook. I was only just trying to impress you with my . . . cooking skills.”

“Gemma only said that because she’s a worse cook than you, magic or no,” Darcy replies, and this makes Lupin laugh. “You shouldn’t rely so much on her advice, anyway. She’ll only make a fool of you in the end.”

“Gemma’s already made a fool of me more times than I can count,” Lupin answers, seemingly more at ease. “I don’t mind, as long as you’re not laughing along with her. Gemma can think whatever she likes of me, but I can’t have you thinking I’m a fool.”

“I only sometimes think you’re a fool, don’t worry,” Darcy shrugs, and Lupin’s smile widens.

* * *

“I like this one,” Darcy says, pointing to the first picture she’d taken. “Even though I look ridiculous smiling like that.”

“Nonsense, you look beautiful.” Sirius holds up the photograph to the light, the better to see it. There’s a contagious grin on his face as he examines it closely, shifting on his bed and ignoring the loud groans from the old mattress. “You have nice teeth, Darcy.”

Darcy blushes, covering her mouth with one hand and snatching the photo from his hand with her other one. “Shut up,” she mutters. Eventually, Darcy lowers her hand and flips through the others they’d taken—their eyes are closed in some of them, goofy smile and awkward expressions in others. “I wish I could bring these back with me. I’d frame them all and put them right on the mantelpiece.” She holds out the best picture for Sirius to take. “You can have that one, and I’ll put the rest in my photo album.”

Sirius seems to think highly of this idea, looking over the photograph again and tilting it at odd angles, as if expecting the people in it to move. But the Darcy and Sirius in the picture are very still, and Darcy chuckles to herself. As he watches her gather all of the photographs spread across the bed, he glances at her before saying, “Remus says you’ve been asking about your father.”

Darcy wonders if Lupin can feel her hard stare even through the floors of Grimmauld Place. “I just had a few questions, is all.”

“Questions about your father’s character, perhaps?”

She expects him to be angry, but on the contrary, when Darcy looks sideways at him, he’s smiling. “Is there anything the two of you don’t tell each other?” she asks, slightly annoyed, but Sirius’ laughter puts her at ease.

“I’m sure there’s a great many things Remus doesn’t wish to share with me, namely things regarding you.” They meet eyes for a moment, and Sirius raises his eyebrows at her, making Darcy blush furiously. “What are you asking questions like that for, Darcy? I want to know what Snape’s been telling you about James.”

“What does it matter what Snape’s told me?”

“Because James and Snape hated each other on principle, since the first day they met,” Sirius explains, and it makes Darcy feel rather cautious that he’s being so patient about it. She assumes part of the reason is that Sirius isn’t very concerned about Darcy and Snape loving each other, but regardless, it’s a breath of fresh air. “Snape was interested in the Dark Arts since he was eleven-years-old, and James hated Dark Magic, believe me.”

Darcy wants to believe Sirius, especially when he’s smiling at her so sweetly, but she can’t forget what she’d seen him do in Snape’s memory. Not only had Sirius encouraged James, he had said equally cruel things, had been shockingly cruel. “And what about you?” she asks, wondering if his reaction will be the same as Lupin’s—shame, humiliation, an unwillingness to talk about it, but instead Sirius tilts his head back and lets out a bark of laughter.

“I was a bloody idiot, Darcy, and so was James! We were kids, and we thought we were cool. All kids can be idiots. We all were, for certain . . . well, Remus . . . he wasn’t so much . . . liked to let us know when we’d crossed the line—” Darcy frowns, as this information doesn’t match up with what she’d seen in the Pensieve, but she’s too tired to argue it and not in the mood to explain herself. “I’m telling you, James grew out of it, as much for you as he did for Lily. He was a good man and the best friend I ever had, and once he stopped being such an arrogant berk, your mother was much more fond of him.”

When she speaks, her voice is very hoarse, and she wills tears not to give her away. “Okay.”

“Look,” Sirius says again, more seriously this time. “Whatever Snape says to you about James . . . just remember the path Snape decided to take after school, and compare that to the path your father took. James sacrificed himself in the hopes that you and Harry and your mother could live. Snape would never.”

Sirius touches the side of Darcy’s face as she nods, hiding her shining tears. “Okay,” she whispers. _Why is it so hard to be mad at them?_ she asks herself. Why is it so hard to be mad at these men that she loves so much, when anger comes so easily to her in regards to Snape sometimes? Darcy doesn’t know that she can find it in her to be angry with Sirius ever again, especially after seeing her own memory, seeing Sirius hold her tight to him, so reluctant to give her up. “Okay.”

“If it were up to me, you wouldn’t have to go back. If it were up to me, you’d stay here with me and we’d be a family.” Sirius smooths her hair back and kisses her forehead. Darcy smiles weakly to herself. “Fourteen years we’ve waited to be a proper family. Do you think you can wait just a little bit longer?”

Darcy nods, feeling that saying or doing anything else would be inappropriate. Sirius pats her gently and fondly on the cheek, smiling from ear to ear, as if this simple gesture is the promise of a lifetime.

“Good. And, hey . . . while I’ve got you alone here, I’ve been meaning to ask you . . .” Sirius looks around suddenly, as if someone is listening in. Darcy stares at him, bewildered, until his face softens and he looks awkward and apologetic, shifting on the noisy mattress. “Your friend, Emily? Sweet girl, but . . . up my ass a whole lot these days . . .”

Without warning, Darcy laughs. Sirius smiles, as if unsure whether or not he’s insulted Darcy. “Understood,” she says with a raised eyebrow. “You should be flattered, though. Emily isn’t one to chase after men.”

“Being good-looking is a curse, sweetheart,” Sirius jokes, pulling Darcy to her feet and opening the door for her. “Surely you’ve realized that by now?”

“Right,” Darcy murmurs, chuckling as Sirius drapes his arm around her shoulders.

* * *

“Can I sit in on tonight’s meeting?”

The entire room answers as one—Sirius, looking handsomely bored, flipping through the pages of an old edition of _The Quibbler_ ; Gemma, looking through Darcy’s old photo albums, reminiscing with Darcy upon seeing drunken pictures from Hogwarts (despite Gemma having seen them a hundred times and lived them, the photographs always make her smile); and Lupin, seated in one of the kitchen chairs, with Darcy cutting away at his shaggy, graying hair.

“Gemma, come on!” Affronted, even though she’d expected this answer, she tells them all angrily, “I’m just going to use the Extendable Ear, then.”

“Fine,” Lupin replies quickly. “If McGonagall doesn’t make the door Imperturbable this time. We all saw right through Emily’s pretend charmwork last time.”

“When am I going to be allowed in?” Darcy grumbles, looking around at everyone, not confident to cut Lupin’s hair with her hand trembling the way it is now.

“When you’re not a Potter,” Gemma answers, suddenly looking gleeful and holding up the photo album in her hands to the room at large. “Darcy, I haven’t seen this one before! Look, her nose is still too big for her face here.”

Darcy blushes upon looking at the picture being shown. She’s only twelve in it, standing shyly next to Emily in the Great Hall—Emily said had found it while cleaning out her dad’s house and had told Darcy to add it to her collection. “I grew into it,” she says in a low grumble, rubbing her nose. “Leave me alone.” She busies herself with Lupin’s hair again for a few minutes, finally giving him one hand mirror while holding up another for him to see the back of his head. “Good?”

Lupin fusses with it for a moment, looking thoughtful. “A little shorter, like you did the Christmas at my home, remember?”

“I’m going to let you in on a secret,” Darcy says, putting the mirror back down. “I cut one spot far too short that Christmas and I just combed it over so you couldn’t tell when I showed you.”

“You let me walk around with an uneven patch of hair on the back of my head and you’re just _now_ telling me?”

Darcy scoffs. “Did anyone say anything to you about it?”

“No, but—”

“Then shut up,” Darcy retorts, and Sirius and Gemma laugh heartily. “You’d never have known had I not told you.”

“It’ll keep me awake for weeks now,” he teases. “Knowing that I looked like a fool and you didn’t tell me.”

“Careful, I’ve still got the scissors. Oops—!”

“You’re not funny,” Lupin mumbles, reaching back to feel the back of his head. Darcy gives his hand a sharp slap and he withdraws it quickly.

“You know you’re a witch, right?” Gemma asks, watching Darcy work with a glazed and tired look about her. “Why don’t you just charm the scissors to do it so you don’t have to? Here, I’ll do it for you—”

“No!” Darcy and Lupin say together.

Gemma huffs, holding up her hands in surrender. “It’s just hair. It’ll grow back if something gets messed up.” She flips through a few more pages, smiling at some pictures.

Darcy cuts one final piece of Lupin’s hair, letting it fall to the floor and ruffling his hair. “Very handsome,” she tells him with a chuckle, grabbing a fistful of hair and relishing the smile on Lupin’s face as he tilts his head back to look at her, his neck exposed just the way she likes, begging for her lips to touch all over, begging for her tongue to trail lightly down his throat. It’s such a silly thing to be distracted by, she thinks, but even just his exposed neck makes Darcy’s stomach coil like a restless snake, her heart fluttering fast at the thought of his hushed groans vibrating against her lips.

Speaking to Sirius and Gemma, but keeping his eyes fixed upon Darcy, he says, “This girl’s always done wonders for my self-esteem. What was it that I’ve told you about flattery, Darcy?”

Darcy doesn’t answer but blushes fiercely, quietly insisting that Lupin clean all of his hair off the floor. He does so without complaint, with a few graceful—and Darcy suspects _dramatic_ —wand movements. She watches him closely, unbothered when he looks up to find Darcy watching, the corners of his lips twitching upon meeting her eyes.

“Oh, Darcy, I _love_ this picture of you and Hermione. You both look so beautiful. I wish I could have been there.” Gemma holds up the photo album, showing off the photograph of Darcy and Hermione the night of the Yule Ball. Even in the faded and off-colored photo, Darcy can still picture vividly the shimmering, pale gold dress that had made her look like a woman for the first time, especially standing next to a fifteen-year-old Hermione. “Do you have the picture of us before the gala?”

“It’s in there,” Darcy assures her distractedly.

“Listen,” Gemma says again, turning the page and looking very seriously from Darcy to Lupin and back again. “Not to drag up any awful memories, but I love this picture, too.”

They all scramble to look over Gemma’s shoulder, Sirius glancing at it from her side. The photograph makes Darcy incredibly sad. It’s one that Gemma had taken while in Darcy’s old room, from behind the sofa where Darcy and Lupin had been sitting. At the time, they hadn’t been aware a picture was being taken at all; their faces are turned towards each other, Darcy’s tilted upwards slightly, her eyes closed and a genuine, soft smile across her face, waiting for a kiss that Lupin hadn’t delivered, since the flash of Darcy’s camera had alerted them to being watched. But in the picture, Lupin only smiles back down at her, lips inches from the tip of her nose.

Darcy and Lupin exchange an embarrassed look, cheeks pink. It’s the sound of the front door opening and closing that brings them out of their reverie, making them jump and take a few steps away from each other. Gemma closes the photo album as Professors McGonagall, Dumbledore, and Snape make their way into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, Potter, but you’ll have to wait outside the kitchen,” McGonagall says in an apologetic tone, sharing a knowing look with Dumbledore.

Darcy looks quickly at Snape, hoping for backup. “But Professor—”

“No, Darcy,” Snape says quietly, as Kingsley, Tonks, Emily, and Mad-Eye Moody file into the kitchen, taking empty seats. “Not today.”

“Your hair is different,” Tonks notes, sitting down on Lupin’s left side, Gemma on his right. She tilts her head slightly and looks him over, combing his hair out of his eyes quickly. Darcy looks away, feeling Snape’s hand upon the nape of her neck, steering her out of the kitchen.

Before the door closes, Darcy hears Lupin answer, “Darcy cut it for me.”

She makes her way up to her bedroom with the photo albums tucked under her arm when the rest of most of the Order arrives. The first thing she does is lower the Extendable Ear to the door, but McGonagall has likely made the door Imperturbable, as Darcy hears nothing. She scowls, cursing them all, and slams her bedroom door shut—despite no one being around to hear.

She hates that they have meetings on weekends, when they know that Darcy will be at Headquarters. Number twelve, Grimmauld Place is her home, and it infuriates her that she is being kept from things happening in her home, that she is being kept from things that might explain things for her. Do they not think she can handle it? Maybe they don’t want to scare her, or maybe they don’t want her telling Harry or Hermione or Ron what she’s been hearing, or maybe Dumbledore is afraid if he tells Darcy about something important, she’ll do something reckless in an attempt to help. Or maybe he thinks Voldemort is going to use Harry to learn things Darcy knows and wants to prevent it. But isn’t that why Harry’s learning Occlumency? Surely it’s safe to keep her informed now?

And despite all of this, jealousy burns inside Darcy at the mere image of Tonks confidently swiping Lupin’s hair from his eyes, the way she had done so many times before. Darcy wishes all sense of romantic feelings would just cease. It’s exhausting being so in love with someone who won’t commit (but maybe it’s unfair to place all of the blame on Lupin for that, seeing as she refuses to commit, as well), exhausting being filled with much need for affection, exhausting being filled with so much desire with no one to indulge her. She hates the sickening feeling of jealousy—something she has not had to feel often with Lupin, but now . . .

Darcy doesn’t think she could ever face Lupin if he decided to be with Tonks. How shameful and humiliating, how hurtful and _sad_ . . . and yet, Darcy feels maybe she should have seen something like this coming. After all, Tonks is beautiful and lively (and while Darcy doesn’t think herself particularly ugly, she certainly doesn’t think herself lively), and she’s an Auror, important, exciting. Nobody treats Tonks like she’s a child—Mrs. Weasley doesn’t fuss over her like a daughter, Dumbledore doesn’t see reason to keep her out of Order meetings despite them being so close in age. And, Darcy thinks with her stomach churning violently, if Tonks were to fuck him, it probably wouldn’t be as sad and broken as when Lupin’s fucking _her_.

Part of her takes a queer form of pleasure at the thought of what Lupin might think if she made any romantic advances towards Snape, no matter how slight. But in the end, it comes down to two things—one: Darcy has no romantic feelings towards Snape at all and the thought of kissing him makes her squirm, and two: Darcy thinks it unimaginably cruel to lead Snape on for the sole purpose of making Lupin jealous.

She opens the top drawer of her dresser, pulling out a hidden envelope filled with pictures that are sure to make her start crying. Darcy sits upon her bed with them, pulling them out with trembling hands, willing tears not to come. Each picture is so sweet—some of them taped back together, the ones that Aunt Petunia had attempted to fix for her, and others are fine, having been safe at Lupin’s cottage. Most of them are innocent pictures, ones that Vernon had not destroyed in a rage—Lupin cooking her dinner, his cheeks full of food he’s been swiping; Darcy’s lips pressed hard to Lupin’s cheek, a pleased little smile upon his face and his eyes closed; Lupin at the Three Broomsticks, sitting across from Darcy and smiling so handsomely and lovingly.

Lupin had given her back some of the more risqué ones—the ones of him, anyway, as Darcy knows he still has the risqué photographs of her hidden away in his nightstand. That thought makes her smile, makes her flush, when she thinks of Lupin pulling a picture from the drawer one night when the house seems empty during the week. She imagines his face, pained and full of longing, remembering days where Darcy’s legs had opened just for him, remembering waking to Darcy pressing sweet kisses all over his face.

She doesn’t know how long she lays there looking at the pictures, only that she craves hands upon her, fingers creating shockwaves through her body with each gentle touch, warmth that burrows into her bones. The need for comfort is strong now, and what she wouldn’t give to have Lupin come through her bedroom door and kiss her and remind Darcy what it is to be loved—really and truly loved. And even as she thinks this, the words Lupin had spat into her face creep into her mind again, no matter how badly she wants to forget them.

_That’s what you do, isn’t it? Cling to men who show you affection? Fuck them when you want to feel loved?_

Is it true, though? Darcy hates to admit it, but at the same time, can’t help but to think . . . she had clung to Mr. Weasley after he’d come to her after a nightmare, she had clung to Ludo Bagman after he flashed her a few warm smiles and showered her with innocent compliments, she had clung to Snape when he started showing an interest in her personally. But she had never, and would never fuck any of them. Oliver was a special case, she thinks—Oliver, who had always been readily available to show her affection that was so sorely missed while at Privet Drive with the Dursleys. And, while they hadn’t slept together, Darcy had really liked Gavin, too—Gavin, who had been her only friend over the summer at Privet Drive, who had been kind and soft with her, who had been handsome and was sweet on her. After the summer she had, what was so wrong with seeking attention and affection, with wanting to feel loved for a little bit? Darcy had even allowed Gemma to kiss her, just to be kissed . . . is that so wrong?

Darcy looks down at the picture in her hands, one that Lupin had returned. Propped against the threshold to the bathroom in his cottage, a towel is wrapped around his waist, hair a dripping, soaking mop, arms crossed over his taut chest, a small smile on his face. She remembers the day very well, for as soon as she’d taken the picture, Darcy had jumped from his bed and covered him with kisses, hands roaming everywhere they could reach to memorize the feel of him. She had brought him to his knees that day with a few strategic movements of her mouth, and Lupin had fucked her on the floor of his bedroom, leaving her a trembling, love-drunk mess when he had finished, love bites covering her chest and neck, lips swollen twice their normal size, aching for more.

With a deep breath and a dangerous stirring in her core, Darcy glances towards the door, exhaling shakily. The house is still silent, and Darcy imagines they’ll still be a while . . . Gemma made it seem like this meeting was going to be really important . . . Darcy looks back at the picture in her hand, blushing desire the fact there is no one around to catch her doing such dirty things. She pulls the blanket over her, reaching down and pulling her dress up to touch the heat between her legs and soothe the painful ache building there, her hand shaking violently. She isn’t sure why it seems so embarrassing, as if she’s doing it in front of the entire household—it’s not as if she hasn’t touched herself before, but something about doing it while looking at a picture of Lupin is humiliating. She wonders if Lupin feels the same way when he pulls out a picture of her, too.

Darcy closes her eyes, her breath coming in shaky gasps, heart racing, half afraid someone’s going to burst through the door at any moment. She places the photograph down by her side, her now free hand wrapping around her throat, running her fingers through her hair—fingers that are far too slender and delicate to be Lupin’s, but it’s not so hard to pretend, considering she knows very well what it feels like to be touched by him.

She cranes her neck out, as if there are lips hovering above her waiting to be kissed, but there are none. A soft and relieved sigh escapes Darcy’s lips, slightly louder than she’d hoped for, and at the sound of gentle knocking at her door, her stomach flips so badly that she almost vomits. At the sound of his voice, the bile rises in her throat.

“Darcy, can I come in?” Lupin asks, and Darcy covers her face with her free hand, burning with shame.

“No,” she manages to say.

There’s a slight pause. “What are you doing in there?” He sounds curious, as if he may already have an idea of what she’s up to.

“I’m changing!” Darcy hisses, trying not to move, trying not to allow Lupin to hear the bed creaking. “Go away! And don’t let anyone else in!” She slides out of bed and shuffles around, stopping when she hears the doorknob turn. “ _Stop_ , Remus! Go away!”

Humiliating her further, Lupin chuckles from the other side of the door. “Come on, Darcy, what are you doing?”

“Don’t—”

But he opens the door anyway, sneaking inside while Darcy’s standing in the middle of the room—not changing at all. She chances a glance in the mirror to see her cheeks are flushed, for once glad that she’s blushing to cover it. But nothing can cover the smell of shame—of what she’s done, or tried to do, before he decided to walk in.

“Oh,” Lupin says quickly, a blush appearing on his face, his eyebrows raising nearly to his hairline. His eyes flick to the nightstand, where a pile of photographs rest, and then to the bed, where the single picture of himself is still lying. Lupin laughs. “ _Oh_ . . .”

“I told you not to come in, you ass,” Darcy snaps, pushing him roughly back towards the door. “Get out—go away!”

Lupin continues to laugh, grabbing at her hands to keep her from pushing him. “In a house full of people, no less!” he teases, relishing the flush on Darcy’s face. “I’m flattered—”

“Shut up,” she groans, looking into his face defiantly.

Something in him seems to shift, change, and the grip on her wrists and hands loosen. “I could help you, if you’d like,” Lupin whispers, pulling Darcy to his chest.

Darcy frowns, feeling the shame swelling. She looks away from him, but doesn’t move away. “Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not mocking you.” Lupin smiles as she tries to pull away, still holding her close. “Darcy, why are you so embarrassed?”

“Please . . .” she breathes, looking up to find his face very close to hers. His touch does nothing to settle her, and her heart leaps in her throat. “Just go away.”

She’s very grateful that he doesn’t go away, however, because as soon as the words leave her mouth, the tears hit her unexpectedly. Darcy sobs into Lupin’s chest, and his arms wrap around her tightly. Whatever desire she’d been feeling is completely gone now, the aching in her core replaced by an aching in her heart, a longing for Lupin—not just to touch her, to fuck her, but to _be_ with her.

Darcy’s cries seem to echo throughout the house, despite Lupin trying to shush her, and within minutes, people are rushing up the stairs, heavy footsteps growing nearer and nearer. Sirius hesitates in the threshold, Gemma’s hands curled around his arm to hold him back, pushed to the side by a white-faced Professor Snape.

“Get away from her—” Snape’s own thin fingers curl around Darcy’s arm and he pulls her away from Lupin. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Darcy murmurs, allowing Snape to place a hand on the nape of her neck as she wipes her cheeks. All she wants to do is leave this room, pretend what just happened never happened at all. “Please . . .”

“We’re leaving,” he says, looking dangerously at the others. “Smythe, get her things.”

Gemma releases Sirius’ arm, looking rather nervously at both Lupin and Sirius. But she does as she’s told and is met with no protest, only impatient huffing and scoffing from Sirius. When at last her bag is packed and handed off to her, Snape takes it, and slings it over his own shoulder.

“Say goodbye, Darcy. We’re going now.”

But Darcy is far too ashamed to even be in the bedroom with them all, and she only receives a peck on the cheek from Gemma before trailing down the stairs after Snape, leaving Sirius and Lupin bewildered and alone in the bedroom. 


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2019! Hope you’re all nursing your hangovers with greasy food and the Twilight Zone marathon.

It comes as a great surprise—a letter dropped by a handsome eagle owl in the middle of her breakfast plate, splashing porridge onto the front of her robes. The owl doesn’t linger, and Darcy picks up the letter, flipping it over.

_Darcy Potter_  
Great Hall  
Hogwarts School

“Who’s that from?” Snape asks, peering over her shoulder and narrowing his eyes.

“Mr. Weasley, probably,” Darcy says with a shrug. She glances down the staff table, surprised to see Umbridge watching her with a furious, but curious expression, her lips stretched tight.

Intrigued and feeling nervous, Darcy breaks the wax seal and pulls the parchment out from within. The handwriting is certainly not Mr. Weasley’s—feminine looking, loopy, and only one word is written in the very center of the parchment: _Slut_.

“Okay, so maybe not Mr. Weasley—oh!”

More owls swoop around her head, dropping dozens of letters in front of her, drawing the attention of students and teachers alike. Darcy looks up from her pile of letters and towards the Gryffindor table, where many students are distracted as letter after letter is dropped in front of Harry, as well. He, Hermione, and Ron are already opening them furiously, and Harry turns to look at Darcy for a moment, and she’s pleased to see him smiling at her. Comprehension dawns on her as another owl drops a curled up magazine in her lap, the March edition of _The Quibbler._

Darcy unrolls it immediately, staring down at the front cover and unable to keep herself from grinning. Harry’s black-and-white face is looking up at her from the cover, smiling sheepishly and uncomfortably, shifting in his seat, looking very much the young boy he is.

**Potter Siblings Speak Out At Last**

**Harry Potter’s Personal Testimony:  
The Truth About He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named And The Night I Saw Him Return**

And below that title is another one, slightly smaller and less attractive than Harry’s headline.

**Darcy Potter Defends Werewolf Rights After Rumored Romance With One**

Darcy’s heart stops for a moment, but not for fear or anxiety or doubt. Excitement courses through her veins, especially when she looks up from the cover—being showered with letters—and sees the look on Snape’s face. There is a flash of horror in those cold, black eyes of his, as if he didn’t think the situation couldn’t have been any worse—as if he had thought her article was enough. Harry’s interview has clearly taken Umbridge and Snape by surprise, and Darcy knows what she will find upon opening these letters that now make eating breakfast a chore, but she doesn’t care. Darcy quickly flips to the page where Harry’s interview begins and reads the most detailed description he’s given since the night it all happened, since they had all stood in Dumbledore’s office and Harry had painfully explained what he’d bore witness to. Her heart sinks when she reads the names of the Death Eaters that had returned, for Gemma’s parents are named among them. Snape reads from over her shoulder, and Darcy looks up again to find Umbridge looking red with rage.

Quickly, Darcy flips past the rest of Harry’s article as Umbridge gets to her feet, as squat and toad-like as ever. She stops upon seeing a photograph of herself, one that she recognizes, one that had likely been swiped from her bedroom by Hermione. It isn’t a new one, but one from last year, of a laughing Darcy, in the middle of flipping her dark red hair, the only Muggle picture in the entirely of _The Quibbler._

**A Closer Look Into The Ministry’s Supposed Equal Rights Laws**  
By Darcy L. Potter

Her smile widens. The article is there, just as she’d written it, slightly smaller than and not attracting as much attention as Harry’s and towards the back, heartily defending werewolves rights to better lives, better opportunities, a life free from disdain and poverty, a life where they are offered the tools and resources to make transformations easier on themselves, also preventing them from being a danger to others. Not a single thing has been changed or added or removed, and her voice is strong and clear and firm through her use of words, asserting the right for werewolves to live among the Wizarding community without fear of prejudice and retaliation or rejection and without fear of being ostracized. Months of work and research and late nights and doubts—it’s finally here, finally in writing for the world to see. Darcy lowers the magazine to look up and beam at Harry, Hermione, and Ron again, only to find Professor Umbridge blocking her view, her face twisted into a sneer, pouchy eyes flicking from _The Quibbler_ to all the letters scattering the table in front of Darcy.

“What is this?” Umbridge asks in a low, but still outrageously girlish voice.

“Letters for me. I wrote an opinion piece for _The Quibbler_ ,” Darcy answers, trying—and failing—to suppress her grin. Only when Snape steps very hard on her foot do her eyes begin to water and the smile is wiped from her face.

Umbridge snatches the one opened letter still lying amongst the pile (that continues to grow with the odd owl dropping one here and there). She laughs outloud at the one word letter Darcy has opened. “Well,” Umbridge says, handing it back to Darcy with her eyebrows raised, eyes flashing. “They’re not wrong.” She throws the letter back at Darcy, grabbing _The Quibbler_ from her hands; her eyes scan the article quickly, widening when she realizes the subject matter. Umbridge again throws it at Darcy when she finishes, and Darcy catches it, clutching it to her chest. “You must be very proud of your assistant, Professor Snape.”

Looking very apathetic and cold, Snape glances quickly at Darcy before looking Umbridge full in the face. “Darcy has done a many great things to make me proud,” he says, and Darcy’s chest swells with pride. “No matter how foolish her article may be, she has stated an opinion to the world that many will not agree with, and that is, in itself, an admirable thing.”

It’s then that Umbridge sees the cover of _The Quibbler_. She turns faster than Darcy could ever have believed towards the Gryffindor table, storming away with a false smile painted on her face, marching right up to Harry. The owls have stopped delivering letters by now, the majority of the Great Hall looking curiously around. Luna Lovegood gives her a dreamy smile from the Ravenclaw table, and Darcy smiles back.

Gathering her letters and stuffing them into her bag, Darcy jumps up from her seat and makes her way around the table, Snape following behind her, however she doesn’t quite make it anywhere when Professor McGonagall shouts, “Potter!”

Darcy whirls, afraid that she’s going to be met with a very stern, pointed gaze. But McGonagall’s lips are stretched tight—not in fury like Umbridge’s were, but to disguise a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Yes, Professor?” she asks, nervously wringing the edition of the magazine in her hands.

“May I borrow your copy of _The Quibbler_?” McGonagall asks, and Darcy opens her mouth to answer, meeting Dumbledore’s eyes for a split second. There’s a twinkle in his bright blue eyes, and Darcy’s small smile returns.

“Of course, Professor,” Darcy says, reaching over the table to give McGonagall the copy of _The Quibbler_. Dumbledore reads over her right shoulder, stroking his long beard and looking highly amused, while Professor Sprout reads over her left. Darcy takes a step backwards from the staff table, accidentally treading on Snape’s feet, and before she turns her back on the teachers, Hagrid gives her a smile and a polite nod, looking absolutely painful, his face bruised and fresh cuts visible on his beaten and bloody skin.

Halfway through the Great Hall, as Darcy approaches Harry, she and Snape watch Umbridge continue to storm out of the Great Hall, a copy of _The Quibbler_ in her hands. “I’ll see you in the classroom,” Snape murmurs in her ear, escaping her side as Harry, Hermione, and Ron jump from the benches at the table to greet Darcy.

“Nicely done, Darcy,” Ron grins, holding out his hand to give Darcy a dap. She laughs as their hands come together for a brief moment before pulling away with a snap of their fingers. “I always love seeing Umbridge caught off guard. Looked frightened, didn’t she?”

“Not frightened enough to give me a week’s worth of detentions. She’s banned me from Hogsmeade, too,” Harry says, but to Darcy, he doesn’t seem terribly upset by this. Perhaps it’s just the surge of adrenaline that the magazine has brought the both of them, but after all, there’s only one or two more trips to Hogsmeade left. And Darcy feels that Harry must have been prepared for some form of punishment upon giving his interview, even if the thought of Umbridge forcing her little brother to carve words into the back of his hand makes her feel sick. “When I’d told her I gave the interview there.”

“There’s always next year,” Darcy says, smiling at him. “Quidditch . . . Hogsmeade . . . all these bans will be lifted immediately once Umbridge leaves.”

“How do you know she’s going to leave?” Hermione asks, narrowing her eyes. “I don’t think Umbridge is planning on going anywhere for the time being.”

“Hermione,” Darcy says with a chuckle, still feeling exhilarated. “When have we ever had a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher stay for more than a year? Even Quirrel didn’t last, and he had Voldemort on the back of his head.”

Ron flinches at the word. “I’m hoping Umbridge will go the same way he did.”

“Ron!” Hermione hisses reprovingly, looking over her shoulder towards the entrance to the Great Hall. “You shouldn’t say things like that so loudly.”

“What? It’s true,” Ron protests, shrugging and grinning at Darcy again. “The world might be better off without her running around in the Ministry. Anyway, if the gods are good, you’ll be our next Defense teacher. Might even learn a thing or two from you.”

“Before I meet my untimely demise at the end of the school year? No thanks,” Darcy teases, suddenly very serious, running a hand through her hair. “What did your letters say?”

“Some are convinced,” Hermione piped up again, bouncing on her feet and looking delighted. Harry nods in agreement, a smile returning to his face. “They believe him, and it’s wonderful! And . . . well, we always knew not everyone was going to believe him . . . but every person we’ve convinced is one more on our side that we didn’t have before, right? Did you open any of yours yet?”

“Just the one,” Darcy answers, reaching in her bag to hold up the one letter she’d opened. She holds it out for Harry and his friends to read. Hermione covers her mouth, looking outraged; Ron utters a, “yikes”; Harry’s face darkens and he suddenly seems very angry. “I’m sure that’s not even the worst one. I heard worse last year. Anyway, I was going to wait and open them with Gemma and Emily this weekend.” She checks her watch and glances towards the entrance hall. “I should go. If Umbridge overhears us talking about this, I’ll be sacked for sure. I’ll see you guys in class!”

Darcy nearly skips down to the dungeons. They seem bright today, more welcoming than usual and slightly warmer. She doesn’t have to hold her robes tight around herself to keep goosebumps from spreading, and when she bursts through the door to Snape’s classroom, making him jump at the sound of her almost kicking it down, he turns to face her. Without thinking, so full of joy (and Darcy doesn’t even know where all of this joy has come from, only that it is overwhelming and terrifyingly so), Darcy drops her bag at her feet and runs to Snape, wrapping her arms tight around his neck. To her surprise, Snape grunts when she slams into him, but holds her around the waist, lifting her from the ground as she celebrates.

“I did it . . . I did something good . . . I did something _important_ ,” Darcy laughs in his ear, holding him tight for a few seconds before releasing him. Snape loosens his grip reluctantly, keeping her in place for a moment, and Darcy’s smile falters, her voice hushed when she speaks. “What are you doing?”

Snape opens his mouth, but no words come out. Darcy’s heart beats violently fast, her fingers dig deep into his upper arms—she wants to vomit with the way her stomach is churning, and his face is so close to hers, far closer than she’d like, and his long arms are still around her waist. “Darcy,” he says hoarsely, very unlike himself. “I . . .”

Sometimes Darcy has trouble believing this is Professor Snape at all—she can’t believe that the Professor that had intimidated and terrified her so much during her seven years as a student at Hogwarts is this same man, stuttering like a fool while holding her, unwilling to let go of her. Darcy raises her eyebrows, but it seems Snape can’t finish what he wants to say.

“Did you mean what you said to Umbridge? You’re proud of me?” she whispers, breathing very hard, trying to ignore the way his eyes flick to her lips and back to her eyes again.

“Darcy, don’t ask me that . . .” Snape’s cheeks flood with color. “I wasn’t going to . . . you are my assistant—my apprentice—and I was not going to allow Umbridge to belittle you in front of the staff and students.”

“Thank you,” she breathes, squirming in his grip. Darcy’s chest is heaving now, and she has a hard time meeting his eyes, not wanting to look at his face. “Professor Snape . . .”

His arms retract from around her waist, hands touching her face, smoothing her hair back, face moving closer to hers. There is no pretending now that he isn’t going to kiss her—the way his eyes dart from her own to her lips is proof enough, and everything in her screams to run away. Darcy holds her breath, closing her eyes and turning her face slightly as he continues to lean in, feeling nauseous when the tip of Snape’s nose brushes against her cheek and his lips ghost across her skin, across the place where her own lips had been three seconds previously. A blush creeps up her neck, her face flushing furiously.

“Professor, I told you . . . I can’t . . .”

Snape releases her finally, looking uncomfortable. “Because of him,” he says softly, and Darcy fights the urge to scoff. She doesn’t need him to elaborate to know who he is talking about.

Instead, Darcy frowns, taking a step backwards, and crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes flick to his left forearm and back to Snape’s face, trying to look apologetic. Snape claps his right hand to his forearm almost instinctively, looking away from her. “You’ve hurt me,” Darcy tells him incredulously, wondering how on earth Snape could possibly not understand why she doesn’t want him. “You have done and said things to deliberately hurt me, and to hurt the people that I love the most, and what’s more . . . you don’t even think that you’ve done wrong. That, or you don’t care. You’ve never apologized for outing Remus, you never apologized for lying to the Minister about Sirius and Peter. And the worst of it is that you are cruel to Harry.”

Snape refuses to look at her, and Darcy feels she’s looking again at a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old Snape instead of a grown man. He rubs at his sleeve where the Dark Mark is branded on his skin. “I am not . . . I’m risking my life while Black sits at home and drowns in drink, while Lupin takes advantage of you every opportunity he has—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Darcy says shrilly. “I am grateful for what you do to help us, Professor, truly I am. But you still held those beliefs at one time, and . . . I could never— _would_ never . . .” She sighs heavily, dragging her fingers through her hair. “We are very different people, Professor Snape. Our values and convictions . . . we don’t believe in the same things. It’s nothing to do with Remus.”

The bell rings suddenly and abruptly to signal the end of breakfast, and Darcy jumps. When the first years begin to filter into the classrooms—unaware, it seems, of what _The Quibbler_ has published—she smiles at them all, despite the churning in her stomach.

By mid-morning, Umbridge thinks herself to declare victory, it seems, as the newest Educational Decree is posted, making the handling of _The Quibbler_ an expulsible offense. This does nothing to help her cause, however. By banning the magazine, Umbridge seems to have caught the attention of every student in Hogwarts, making them wonder what could possibly have been written to make the magazine banned completely. Darcy hears students quoting Harry’s interview under their breaths in Potions classes, hears others talking fervently about a certain professor, arguing in whispers about “people like Lupin” who would adjust nicely to the community. Some students—mostly Slytherins, as much as she hates to admit it—comment on it in the corridors, sneering and hissing crude insults to her face. Once Darcy docks them points, they stop saying things to her face, and Harry informs her of what’s been said behind her back, which is far worse, but still doesn’t dampen her spirits.

Though no one dares insult Darcy outloud during Potions lessons, not after Pansy Parkinson is overheard by Professor Snape saying to Draco Malfoy, “I think she only wrote it so all the other werewolves know she’s willing to sleep with them. She could even start charging, but I doubt she would. She loves them too much.” Harry had been red with rage, shaking with anger, and Hermione’s eyes had shined with tears. Ron had been halfway out of his seat, his ears red. Pansy had smiled at them and continued, “I heard Professor Lupin even forced himself on Darcy when she was still a student here. She was probably asking for it, though . . . always with him, wasn’t she? My parents would have had him carted off to Azkaban right away, but she hasn’t got any of those, has she?” Both Harry and Ron had leapt from their seats, hands curled into fists towards Malfoy, who had been laughing with glee. Darcy had sent a Shield Charm their way, stopping them from doing anything stupid, and Snape had reached her first, taking points from his own House, giving Pansy a detention, turning a blind eye to the beating Harry and Ron had been about to give Malfoy, and leaving Pansy open-mouthed with shock and blushing furiously.

Neville had offered her a small smile afterwards and a candy out of his pocket, not saying a word, but flushing heartily.

Darcy does still refuse to open the letters, thinking that having Gemma and Emily and maybe even Sirius around will make the opening process easier. The letters continue to pile up on the table in front of the fire—though some Howlers have been sent and there is absolutely no privacy there. The things screamed across the Great Hall are repeated by other students. But that doesn’t bother her as much, for the staff are more than encouraging. Professor Sprout gives her a box of chocolates on Tuesday, and Professor McGonagall gives her a bottle of Madam Rosmerta’s best mead and a winning smile on Wednesday. Harry says that Professor Flitwick had given him fifty points to Gryffindor for being Darcy’s brother on Thursday.

Umbridge is less than impressed. Everytime their eyes meet across the staff table, it is a challenge. Her face is always flushed of late, as if she’s been recently harassed, and her hair doesn’t seem quite so sleek anymore. While not able to speak of the article freely, Umbridge takes a different tack. Darcy thinks that—if Umbridge even got to know her—she might not go this way as far as punishment. Darcy has suffered far worse by Vernon’s hands than a few lashing across the knuckles—she will not be intimidated into giving either Lupin or Sirius’ whereabouts just because of a few sharp licks to her hands.

Every day of the week, it’s the same. Umbridge asks the same questions while Darcy smiles smugly: Where is the werewolf? I don’t know. Where is Sirius Black? I don’t know. Where is the half-breed? I don’t know. Where is your godfather? I don’t know. Why was Sirius Black’s head in the Gryffindor common room’s fireplace? Why would it be? (This answer earns her a much harder lashing.) Where do you go during weekends? The Weasleys allow me to stay with them.

And every day, it’s the same with Professor Snape. A bowl of Murtlap Essence waiting for her, to soothe the ache in her bleeding and cracked and bruised knuckles. Neither of them bring up what had happened that Monday morning and Darcy is glad, knowing the conversation would just end in someone’s feeling getting hurt and possibly some tears from her end. And anyway, Darcy thinks she’s quite gotten her point across, and if Snape still misunderstands why she doesn’t want him, then he hasn’t been listening and paying attention to her. But the scene in that Potions lesson with Pansy Parkinson had spoken volumes, and Darcy hasn’t forgotten.

Harry and Darcy are instant celebrities in quiet, when Umbridge isn’t around. Students who have been influenced by both Harry’s interview and Darcy’s article seem much more receptive to her in classes, greeting her with smiles. One afternoon, as Darcy is washing her hands in the bathroom, two giggling fourth year Ravenclaws come in, arm in arm with each other. They stop at the sight of Darcy, whispering in each other’s ears. Darcy puts her head down, washing her hands feverishly, only faltering when she hears the taller of the two, Jordan, say, “Hey, Darcy. Your article was really good.”

“Oh, thanks,” Darcy replies, smiling at them in the mirror. “That means a lot.”

The girls take a step closer. The shorter one speaks this time, Joanna. “We think it’s . . . _really_ cool that you and Professor Lupin . . . you know.”

Darcy stammers for a moment. “Sorry?”

“He was so handsome, wasn’t he?”

“Is he just as sweet outside of school as he was as a teacher?”

“Oh . . . yeah, I mean . . .” Darcy clears her throat, looking back down at her hands and turning the faucet off. “He’s sweet.”

Both of the girls sigh dreamily. And then, as Darcy turns around, Jordan has a very serious expression on her face. “We believe Harry, you know. He was _so_ brave. And my mother has been researching lycanthropy for years, trying to find a cure. She said she wrote you a nice letter about the article you’ve written.”

“Thanks. I’ll be sure to write her once I read the letter,” Darcy answers, smiling again.

“My father works for the Ministry, and he’s resigned in protest after reading the interview Harry gave,” Joanna adds. “Though, the Ministry just thinks mum is addled with Spattergroit. That’s what he said in the letter he sent Harry, anyway.”

“Oh, er—is your mother okay?” Darcy asks.

“She’s fine. Healthy as ever, though probably a bit angry with dad for resigning,” Joanna says brightly. “And she believes Harry, as well. See you in class, Darcy.”

The one thing that does dishearten her is the less frequent visits from Harry, Hermione, and Ron. Umbridge seems to be fond of taking walks around the corridor that Darcy’s room can be found, and they don’t bother crossing her path if they can help it. Harry visits her once around ten at night underneath the Invisibility Cloak, Marauder’s Map in tow. He doesn’t stay long when they see Umbridge suddenly leave her office, making for Darcy’s corridor. Darcy makes sure to go straight to bed afterwards, making no sound, afraid Umbridge will have her ear to the portrait, listening for something.

On Friday, Dumbledore catches Darcy in her room during lunch, after she’d snuck back to change out of her shoes in order to wear a more comfortable pair. She’s on the verge of walking out when Dumbledore walks in, closing the door behind her. For a half-second, she’s terrified that Dumbledore is going to scold her for the publishing of her article. His eyes flick to the stack of unopened letters on the sofa, and then back to Darcy, a worried look in his normally bright and twinkling eyes.

“Congratulations on the article,” Dumbledore tells her. “It was tastefully done and wonderfully written. You have a made a proper and excellent case for werewolves everywhere, at only twenty-years-old. You are a woman beyond your years, it seems.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It also means you bear the weight of a woman’s grief and sorrows. If I could wish anything for you, it would be to see you as a carefree little girl again, but alas . . . you have never been a carefree little girl, have you?”

“No, I don’t think so, sir.”

Dumbledore looks at her for a long time. “Tonight, I want you to bring all of your important and sentimental possessions with you when Professor Snape takes you home. Anything of importance, do you understand? And I want it to stay there until I tell you it is all right to bring them back. Leave only what you absolutely need here.”

Darcy hesitates, giving the room a sweeping look. “Why, sir? Am I not going to be able to come back?”

“Just a precaution. You’ll understand, of course.” His eyes fall to Darcy’s bruised knuckles.

So that night, Darcy packs everything she can in her bag using an Undetectable Extension Charm to make it appear far less suspicious lest she be seen carrying half of her things. Her heart beats furiously as she does it—throwing in some shoes, her camera, her favorite books, pictures, half of her clothes, as much as she can until the room looks too empty for her liking. Dumbledore’s ominous order doesn’t sit well with her, but she can’t say she hadn’t been half-expecting something like this. It’s only a matter of time now until Umbridge fires someone, and for a while, now that Darcy isn’t on probation, the debate around school was whether it was going to be Hagrid or Trelawney, but after this article . . . Darcy feels she’s probably a very strong contender for that sacking now. The thought makes her nervous, but not as much as it did. There’s only a few months until the end of the school year . . . she could survive a few bleak months at Grimmauld Place . . . her favorite people will be there, and Harry will be during the summer . . . and once Umbridge’s reign of terror is over, she could come back to Hogwarts and try again, couldn’t she?

The last thing she packs is all of her letters. Excitement and adrenaline surges through her as she and Snape walk the grounds of Hogwarts, as they have every weekend since the start of term. Darcy wants to know what’s written in the letters, wants to know there are people who support her, that werewolves understand she’s only sympathetic, not pitying. She wants the werewolves to know that she wants them on their side—on the Order’s side. But Lupin’s words reverberate in her head . . . what could she do about anything but write a few articles? It’s not like she has the power to change laws or customs or traditions, she cannot reverse years of prejudice . . . Darcy has nothing to promise the werewolves but her kindness, and they aren’t going to just want that . . .

_He’s always right_ , she thinks glumly, clutching Snape’s arm tighter. _He’s probably waiting to gloat right now._

But upon her arrival to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, Darcy is greeted with complete silence. She and Snape looks at each other, puzzled and bewildered, poking their heads in empty rooms to find no one around. It’s only when Darcy finally opens the kitchen door to check inside is hit with the raucous noise—everyone inside cheers loudly, making Darcy jump and stumble backwards into Snape, her heart stopping for an entire second.

Before Darcy can even take in her surroundings, Gemma is pushing a glass of champagne on her and takes her bag and Emily is wrapping an arm around her shoulders, urging her away from Snape and into the kitchen, where they’ve clearly planned a party. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are at the end of the table with Bill, smiling at her; Tonks and Mad-Eye Moody linger by the food; Sirius is standing with Lupin, and Darcy’s spirits soar when she sees Lupin flash her one of his signature cool and easy smiles. When Darcy looks over her shoulder, Snape is gone. Her feet begin to step towards him out of instinct, but Mr. and Mrs. Weasley cut her off before she gets too close.

“Congratulations, Darcy,” Mr. Weasley beams, pulling her into a one-armed hug. Darcy blushes, wishing they hadn’t gone through all the trouble over a stupid article. “What a wonderful read. Molly and I are very proud of you.”

“You make a very convincing argument,” Lupin smiles, appearing behind Mr. Weasley. “I think you’ve almost converted me to your side.”

Darcy blushes even more furiously, drinking her champagne so she doesn’t have to answer. Emily takes her empty glass and quickly engages the Weasleys in conversation, but Darcy knows Mrs. Weasley is listening carefully to Lupin.

“Could I speak to you for a moment?” he asks, leaning towards Darcy to mutter in her ear. “In private?”

“Sure,” Darcy says, sharing a sideways look with Emily before following Lupin out of the kitchen. They make their way into the drawing room, where he immediately lights and fire, lights the lamps, and closes the door after her. Darcy turns her back on him, facing the fire. “I suppose you want to chastise me, then?”

“Not at all,” Lupin replies quickly. He steps closer to her, and Darcy can smell the wine on him. She whirls around. “I didn’t expect the article to be so . . . well, I suppose I should have known you could write so eloquently considering I have read a great many of your essays, and you sometimes have such a way with words that truly, _truly_ makes me weak sometimes, and I’ve always admired the way you hold yourself, which came through so clearly in the article, I thought, and . . . I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

Emboldened by his response to her, but the way he makes such stark statements about how he feels about her, makes Darcy’s head clear for the first time in an entire week, and she smiles at Lupin, making his entire body relax. “No, go on,” she teases. “I quite like hearing you compliment me. But just know this—flattery gets you nowhere, Professor Lupin.”

A smile tugs at the corners of Lupin’s lips at the sound of the name. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in some time. Spoken by you . . . I didn’t realize I’d missed it so much. But I didn’t only pull you away from the party to flatter you, Darcy,” he laughs, blushing, but very handsomely so. Darcy can’t help but notice the distinctly ruffled look about him, his freshly cut hair all a mess, his cheeks flushed from wine. “I wanted to apologize for the way I’d spoken to you before. I’m sorry. It was unwarranted, and—”

“It wasn’t unwarranted,” Darcy says sheepishly, shrugging her shoulders. “I should have told you sooner and let you talk me out of it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I just—”

“Stop,” Lupin interrupts her with a small smile. He takes another step nearer. “It’s my turn to apologize. You have done nothing to apologize for. Your article was a tremendous thing, and I should have had trusted you.” Another step closer. “You really believe all that you’ve written? You truly believe in standing up for our rights?”

“If I don’t believe in the fair and equal treatment of werewolves, I certainly went through a lot of trouble to lie about it,” Darcy jokes, watching his smile fade into a look of disbelief. “Of course I believe everything I’ve written. How could anyone spend so much time with you and believe that all werewolves are monsters?”

“I hope people haven’t been . . . cruel to you,” he says apologetically, as if it’s entirely his fault if they have been.

“Nothing I haven’t heard before, though I haven’t opened the letters yet,” Darcy tells him, not wanting to lie. Though the truth seems to hurt Lupin slightly, she smiles at him and closes the distance between them and takes his hand in hers hesitantly. “I always knew not everyone would be in agreement with me, and I’m not going to be shamed into silence just because people say cruel things to me.”

He smiles down at her. “Emily brought us all copies when it was published. You are Harry are definitely . . . something.”

“‘Stupid’ is the word you’re looking for,” Darcy laughs, thinking that nothing could ruin this for her now, knowing that Lupin doesn’t hate her for what she’s written.

“Definitely not stupid,” Lupin replies, chuckling along with her. He takes her other hand, lacing their fingers together for a brief moment before letting go, his hands jumping to her face, to tuck her hair behind her ears. “Brave, more like. It’s crazy, what you’ve done, do you know that? Absolutely crazy . . . but brave. I am very sorry for how I spoke to you, Darcy, I hope you know that, too. Do you forgive me?”

“Don’t be stupid, of course I forgive you.” Darcy grins, hating herself for the high-pitched, nervous laughter that slips through her slightly parted lips. Her cheeks burn with embarrassment, with his face so close and his lips in perfect range to just kiss him now before she doesn’t have the chance anymore. Feeling rather breathless, Darcy says quickly, “You know, some of the students think it’s really cool that I managed to win the affections of a certain—and very handsome—Professor Lupin.”

“Oh?” Lupin raises an eyebrow, blushing again. “I hope no one is giving you a hard time about us, especially while you were a student. And by ‘no one’, I mean Umbridge.”

“Not to my face, anyway,” Darcy answers truthfully, sighing heavily. “Hindsight is twenty-twenty, though. We probably shouldn’t have done anything while I was your student.”

“I disagree.” Lupin’s words come so quickly, without any hesitation, that it startles her. She isn’t sure if it’s the drink in him, or if he truly believes that, but it makes her stomach flutter with butterflies. “Everything we did that year . . . I don’t regret any of it.”

“None of it?” she breathes, wanting to kiss him now, before the opportunity passes.

“Not a single thing.” He inhales deeply, smiling weakly at her again. “When you told me you loved me that night, I can’t even describe to you how that felt for me. I hadn’t heard a woman say those words to me in years . . . yet there you were . . . the words weren’t coerced from you, or said with a grimace, or said as a lie to make me feel better. You meant them, and I knew that I would never want to hear those words said from anyone else.”

Darcy lifts her hand to touch his chest, resting her palm just over his heart. It’s beating hard against his chest, against her palm. “You’re talking too much,” she whispers.

“Sorry.” His voice comes in a gasp as Darcy runs her hand down his chest to touch his hard stomach over his shirt, fingers trailing back up to give his lean shoulders a gentle squeeze.

With a feeling of reckless abandon, Darcy kisses him hard on the lips, catching him off guard and making him stumble backwards, but Lupin catches himself and kisses her back with a ferocity he hasn’t shown in what feels like a lifetime. Darcy is the one who stumbles this time, her back slamming against one of the bookshelves, causing them to rattle and make enough noise to alert the entire household to what they’re doing. She doesn’t mind it, privately enjoying being pushed around by him, his warm hands wrapping tight around her upper arms to hold her in place. As Lupin’s lips make their way to her jaw, a hand slipping up her shirt, she’s overwhelmed by the smell of wine again.

“Are you drunk?” she whispers in his ear, arching her back against the bookshelf and closing her eyes, a stirring in her core beginning to take place.

“Not nearly enough,” he murmurs against her skin.

“If you’re drunk, I want you to tell me,” Darcy says again, inhaling sharply as his teeth graze her pulse, her head tilted back to expose her neck to him. “Because I want you to remember what I’m going to say to you.”

Lupin pulls away from her, raising his eyebrows and grinning toothily at her. “I’m listening, sweetheart.”

The words tumble out of her before Darcy can even give them any thought. “I love you.”

His smile flickers for only a brief second, and Darcy tries to look away from him, but Lupin catches her face with his fingers. He hold her face in place, making sure she continues to hold his gaze. His chest is heaving, and as his smile fades away, eyes flicking to her lips, he says, “Say it again.”

Darcy pauses, afraid that he’s mocking her. “I love you.” A low growl sounds from the bottom of his throat at the words. She says them again, and Lupin’s hand finds its way between her legs for a moment before tearing her jeans down. Another time, and he allows Darcy to kiss down his throat as she works furiously to unbutton his pants. The last time she says it, a soft purr into his ear, Lupin closes his eyes and groans.

“Come here, my love,” he whispers, lifting her and smiling as she wraps her legs around his torso. Panting, as ready as she’ll ever be for this, Darcy opens her mouth to cry out as he enters her, but Lupin’s hand claps down over her mouth. They don’t move for a moment, the only sounds the crackling of the fire, their breaths coming in short gasps, the distant sounds of the party in the kitchen. And when he decides that they are safe for the time being, Lupin continues to thrust in and out of her, quicker and quicker and harder and harder until Darcy’s legs tremble and keeping them wrapped around him is a struggle. She buries her face in his shoulder, biting down hard on her lip to keep herself from crying out again, hardly able to breathe. Lupin finishes shortly after, and for a moment, they don’t move. He stays, completely still, inside of her, breathing very heavily, kissing her sweaty temple, pressing his cheek to hers. “Should we go back to the party now?”

Darcy, feeling as if she can’t think straight, only nods and makes a small noise of agreement. He helps her down onto shaky legs, laughing when she falls into him after taking a step towards her discarded underwear. “Sorry,” she mumbles, blushing furiously, pulling up her underwear and her jeans, wincing as they press uncomfortably between her legs, which is sore and achy.

The party is much more enjoyable after that, especially when Gemma and Emily are seen with their eyebrows raised, smiles upon their faces, when they notice Darcy and Lupin return, disheveled and flushed and sweating and loosely holding hands. But the entire night is a blur, as her friends press drinks on her (much to Mrs. Weasley’s dismay) and people ask about her article, but soon she’s far too drunk to answer, and the only thing that keeps the room from spinning too badly is Lupin’s hand—warm, solid, more comforting than a hand has any right to be. Soon, her answers are so broken and incoherent and she and Emily break into giggles in the middle of answers.

It’s close to midnight when Darcy stumbles over to Sirius, tripping over her own feet and fall face first into him. Sirius catches her, laughing as he sets her right onto her feet again. The Weasleys, Mad-Eye, Tonks, and Bill have all gone home for the night, but Darcy can still hear her friends encouraging Lupin to take another shot of firewhisky behind her.

“Whoa—you okay?” Sirius asks her, smiling wickedly as Darcy straightens up, clutching her churning stomach.

“I’m going to throw up,” Darcy says flatly, looking into Sirius’ face, glad that he doesn’t act overly concerned.

“Now?” he chuckles.

Darcy nods, and Sirius—still looking very pleased and laughing slightly—hurries her out of the kitchen, nearly dragging her up the stairs towards the cleaner and larger bathroom. As soon as Sirius lowers her to her knees in front of the toilet, Darcy vomits violently, not once,  
not twice, but enough times that she eventually loses count. When at last she finishes and Sirius quickly flushes the remaining sick in the toilet, Darcy groans, her eyes very heavy.

“You won’t feel any better until you’ve thrown it all up,” Sirius tells her, as if he’s done this a thousand times. Unaffected by the stink or the sight of his goddaughter vomiting and drooling over the toilet is a very encouraging thing, but Darcy blushes regardless. Sirius settles himself on the floor, his back against the sink, smiling at her. “Trust me, sweetheart, there’s no shame in a good hurl. I think I remember your father in a similar position multiple times. James could never hold his alcohol.”

“Shut up,” Darcy rasps, heaving again into the toilet.

“Darcy?” Gemma’s voice sounds from the other side of the door as she knocks quietly. “Are you in there? I have some water for you.”

Darcy nods, and Sirius opens the bathroom door. Gemma sits down beside him, holding out a glass of water for Darcy. It’s warm, but the most refreshing thing Darcy thinks she’s ever drank in her life, smooth against her throat that burns terribly, as if she’s just thrown up glass.

“Where’s Emily?” Darcy asks softly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“She followed you upstairs shortly after you left. She’s likely passed out in someone’s bed. Lupin just went to go make sure it wasn’t his.” Gemma looks at Sirius with a very knowing look, the corners of her lips suddenly turning upwards. “She’s probably in your bed, Sirius, now that I think about it.”

Sirius sighs exasperatedly. “I’ll be sure to check before I lie down, then.” He pushes himself to his feet with a grunt, patting Darcy on the back. “Seems you’re in good hands here.” When Darcy lifts her head from the toilet again, Sirius gives her a swift kiss on the head before leaving Gemma and Darcy alone in the bathroom.

“You all right?” Gemma asks, showing every sign of wanting to laugh, but resisting.

“It’s your fault, you know,” Darcy replies with a slight smile. “If you and Emily hadn’t forced me to drink an entire bottle of firewhisky, I wouldn’t be in this position.”

“It was a party,” Gemma protests lightly. “What kind of party would it be if someone wasn’t throwing up at the end of it?” She shrugs, chuckling. “Lupin thinks we might have gone a little too far, but he doesn’t know the lengths we’ve gone to while in school, does he?”

This makes Darcy laugh weakly. She doesn’t quite know why she doesn’t tell Gemma about fucking Lupin in the drawing room or telling him that she loved him.

“Your article was really good, Darcy, and I truly mean that.” Gemma punches Darcy’s arm playfully. “Darcy Potter, Potions Master-in-training and now . . . published author.”

“I think I quite like the sound of that.” Darcy pushes herself away from the toilet, drinking more of the water. “Listen, Gemma . . . I’m really sorry about Harry’s interview—I know he named your parents, and—”

“Don’t,” Gemma interrupts, not angrily, but certainly in a tone that brooks no argument. “It’s not like he could just . . . I get it, Darcy. I’m not mad at Harry. What he did was . . . a far braver thing than I’ve ever done.”

Darcy smiles in spite of herself. “I love you, Gemma,” she slurs. “And I’m not only saying that because I’m drunk.”

Gemma looks away from Darcy, but smiles, as well. “Come on, then. It stinks in here. Some hot cocoa before we go to bed?”

“Yeah, all right.” Darcy grabs Gemma’s extended hand and gets to her feet. With an arm thrown each other, they make their way to the kitchen again, where Lupin is cleaning up the mess with a few lazy flicks of his wand.

“You’re alive,” Lupin notes with a smile, glancing at Darcy as they cross the threshold. With a pointed look at Gemma and a wider smile, he adds, “You know Emily is asleep in my bed?”

“She’ll be thrilled when she wakes up,” Gemma snorts. “Just leave her there for the night. Plenty of beds in this house. And since you’re down here, might as well go claim one . . . night, Darcy. Congratulations again.”

Gemma leaves them rather quickly, and Darcy feels rather awkward standing there, slightly slumped to one side, still feeling quite drunk. “Do you want help?” she asks.

“No, I’m almost done.” Lupin smiles at her, urging her to sit, which she does at once. “You really should get to bed. You don’t look well.”

“I’m only drunk. It’ll pass.”

Lupin laughs, and without her even having to ask, he makes two mugs of hot cocoa, setting them down on the table and sitting beside her. As she reaches for her mug, Lupin’s hand darts out to grab her wrist and panic suddenly floods her. He looks her in the eyes quickly before pulling Darcy’s hand towards his face. Her knuckles are swollen and bruised badly, despite the Murtlap Essence she’s been using all week. They’re ugly and cracked and Lupin presses soft kisses to each of her injured hands in turn.

“She’s looking for you,” Darcy whispers, allowing him thumbs to brush over her knuckles. “You and Sirius. She thinks I know where you are.” She watches him closely, seeing the anger and disgust in his face as he continues to examine her hands.

“You don’t . . . you don’t have to do that for me, Darcy,” Lupin sighs. “I can’t allow her to torture you because of me.”

“You think I would ever give you up? Is that what you want me to do?” Darcy scoffs at the look of indignation on his face. “I would never . . . Remus . . .” And drunkenly, she leans in and kisses him sweetly on the lips, feeling very sorry she hasn’t even brushed her teeth yet, but Lupin doesn’t seem to mind. “I would never tell her where you are, no matter what she does to me.”

Lupin gives her a very wary look. “Let me walk you upstairs. You should get some sleep.”

“I’m fine.” Darcy tries to stand and stumbles, waving him off impatiently. Lupin holds his hands out, taking her hand and placing it on his arm. “Thank you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he chuckles. “The party was for you in the first place.”

“You’re not drunk.”

“Someone has to take care of you.”

“I’m glad it’s you.” Darcy leans into him, letting him lead her up the stairs. “I’ve always been glad it’s you.”

“So you’ve said.” Lupin smiles at her, helping her up the stairs. “And I’m flattered.”

When he opens the door to the bedroom, Darcy tumbles inside, ready to greet Gemma. But the bed is still made, the sheets untouched, and there’s no one there. Darcy looks up at Lupin, frowning. “She’s not here.”

“Sneaky girl,” Lupin says. Darcy grabs him by the hand and pulls him inside the room.

“Aren’t you going to stay with me?” she asks him, a pout on her lips, a crease between her eyebrows. Lupin clears his throat nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Or you could bring Gemma here, and I’ll cuddle up with her.”

Lupin takes a few more steps into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. “No, I’ll stay.”

Darcy stands on her tiptoes, making to kiss him, but her lips only touch the corners of his lips, but she feels him smile against her mouth. “Good. Come take care of me.” Darcy’s knees buckle suddenly, and Lupin catches her before she hits the ground.

“You all right?”

She nods very slowly. “Remus?”

“Yes?” After a few moments though, Darcy still hasn’t spoken. “What is it, Darcy?” Lupin lifts her back onto her feet, his arms still underneath her own.

With her chest pressed against his, Darcy finds it hard to breathe, and her throat constricts. She hopes very much not to vomit on him, not only because her stomach is rolling violently, but because being so close to him makes her so incredibly nervous still. Their mouths are so close that it’s all Darcy can focus on—his lips, his lips, his lips, the only thing that keeps Darcy grounded as the bedroom around her spins. She closes her eyes for a moment, and Darcy thinks she can feel Lupin’s lips ghosting across her own, but when she opens her eyes again, she sees he hasn’t moved, and all she can feel is his breath.

“Do you love me?” she asks softly, looking up into his eyes instead.

It takes Lupin a moment to answer, his face softening in the glow of the gas lamps giving off their dim light. “You know that I do.”

Darcy moves hesitantly to kiss him, but Lupin pulls away slightly, shaking his head.

“Not like this, my love. Here—into bed. Do you have something to change into?”

She nods again, sitting on the edge of the bed, blushing furiously, wrapping her arms around herself. Lupin digs around in the dresser for a minute, pulling out pajamas for her and placing them on the bed next to Darcy. Before she can begin to undress, however, her stomach gives a terrible turn and she heaves for a moment, startling Lupin as he places a hand on her back. Trying to swallow the vomit burning a trail up her throat, Darcy’s eyes water, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” Lupin chuckles, pulling his wand out of his back pocket to conjure a bucket from nowhere. He holds it up to her and Darcy vomits loudly, choking and gagging, making it worse. “You have to get it all out. You’ll feel better.”

“I’ve made a fool of myself, haven’t I?” Darcy heaves again, feeling twenty pounds lighter.

Lupin smiles at her, a warm and genuine smile. “Ah,” he shrugs. “I still like you. Here, change into something more comfortable and less . . . covered in vomit.”

He looks down the front of her shirt, but Darcy’s glad to see his smile doesn’t falter. Taking the bucket out of her hands and placing it on the ground, Lupin lifts her shirt over her head, slower than necessary, she thinks. He replaces it with the new, clean shirt he’s found, helping Darcy to wriggle out of her pants, as well, pulling shorts up her long legs. It’s an intimate thing, seeming to take hours instead of minutes. At last, Lupin pulls the bed covers back and lets her crawl under them before covering her back up.

Darcy closes her eyes and there’s a moment’s shuffling before he gets into bed beside her. “Come here,” he whispers, and she obeys without hesitation, rolling over and settling herself into the crook of Lupin’s arm.

She keeps her eyes open, only able to see part of his face in the darkness. He combs his fingers lightly through her hair. “You still like me covered in vomit?”

“I still like you covered in vomit,” he affirms quietly, closing his eyes.

Darcy smiles to herself, pressing a kiss to his cheek before falling asleep. 


	49. Chapter 49

It is an indescribable comfort upon waking with her cheek to his warm chest, listening to the slow and rhythmic thumping of his heart through his shirt, a song that seems so familiar, like home, safety she no longer knows at Hogwarts. Though the sun shines a little too brightly through the grimy window, and though her head pounds painfully, Lupin’s arm is wrapped loosely around her, long fingers ghosting her skin, a feeling she has missed far more than just fucking him, just kissing him. It isn’t until now that Darcy realizes just how deep her loneliness is, how much she craves even the smallest sign of intimacy and affection from someone she loves.

She touches the hand splayed across his stomach, running her fingertips over his knuckles, twining their fingers together loosely, rolling their fingers together in a curious sort of way. With his eyes still closed, Lupin’s fingers respond lazily. His thumb brushes over the bruising on her hand, he presses their fingertips together for a moment. It’s such a small thing, really—Darcy can’t believe it’s this one small thing that sets her heart to racing, an intimacy that wouldn’t be shared if he didn’t still love her, she thinks.

Darcy releases his hand and his immediately falls back to his side. She lifts the hem of his shirt slightly to reveal his stomach, hard and toned, littered with scars. She isn’t quite sure what possesses her to do it, but Darcy shifts in his hold, pressing her lips softly to each scar in turn, smooth against her mouth. When her lips touch the long, thin scar just below his navel, a soft sigh escaped Lupin’s lips. She continues to kiss each one, up his stomach, pushing his shirt up further to kiss the angriest and most violent looking one on his chest. His fingers push through her dark red hair to smooth it back out of her face, eyes fluttering open to watch her progress further up him. When Darcy kisses the hollow of his exposed throat, his Adam’s apple, his scratchy chin, Lupin smiles, coercing her with little effort and without a word to swing one of her long legs over him to straddle his waist.

“Glad to see you’re still alive,” Lupin says hoarsely. “And relatively unaffected by a hangover.”

“No, I’m definitely hungover,” Darcy answers, the corners of her lips twitching. “But you’re here, and I thought you’d be gone when I woke up.” She sighs, bending over to rest her cheek against his shoulder, burying her face in his warm neck.

There’s a slight pause, in which Lupin wraps his arms around her again. “Do you remember anything from last night? After you started drinking, anyway?”

“Vomiting in a toilet, Sirius laughing at me,” Darcy murmurs, closing her eyes again. “Vomiting in a bucket, trying to seduce you drunkenly before doing so. Does that about sum up the evening?”

“That sounds about right,” he laughs weakly. Darcy sits up to brush the tip of her nose against his, as she’s done so many times before. Lupin tucks Darcy’s stray, falling hair behind her ears. “Your drunken seduce attempt almost worked, you know. A very endearing scene, but there was one small problem.”

“And what was the problem?” Darcy asks with a sly grin, her chest pressed flat to his own still partially revealed one. “Would I have done better to show you my tits?”

“As beautiful a display such as that would have been for me . . .” When Lupin smiles again, his eyes crinkle, making Darcy’s heart melt. She touches his face lightly, softly, in a way she hasn’t for what seems ages. “You were drunk, love.”

Darcy hums in response, sitting up straight and lifting an eyebrow. “Well, do you want to see them now? I’m not drunk anymore.”

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Looking very pleased with himself, Lupin holds his hands behind his head, still smiling coyly. “All right. But only because you asked so nicely.”

She chuckles, making him laugh along with her. “You’re charming, Remus Lupin. Do you know that?”

“Only when I’m trying to get you out of your clothes.” Lupin lifts her shirt above her head. Darcy gives her hair a shake, reaching behind her to unhook her bra. Throwing it to the side, Lupin’s fingers trace the pink marks where the fabric of her bra has pressed into her skin. “Good to know you’re receptive to my charm.”

“When have I ever not been?” Darcy smiles, watching his fingers trace the curve of her breasts. “Are you going to hold my hand in front of everyone today? Kiss me when they’re all watching?”

Lupin’s hands cup her breasts, squeezing gently, and he shifts beneath her, sitting up to place a kiss to the crook of her neck. “Yeah, all right.”

As much as his answer excites her, the way he says it startles her. His answer, so quick and ready and casual, with no hesitation or doubt behind it, is so unlike him, that Darcy immediately senses something is wrong. Her smile falls, but Lupin doesn’t notice, too busy leaving sweet kisses on her chest. “You’re going away again, aren’t you?” she asks breathlessly, partly because of this newfound knowledge, and party because of the strategic placement of his mouth at that particular moment.

“Was I that obvious?” he murmurs against her skin.

Darcy allows him to continue pressing kisses to her, nipping at her flesh to see the goosebumps rise almost instantly. “I might be coming home soon, to stay,” she whispers, raking her fingers through his hair. “Professor Dumbledore told me to bring everything of importance here this weekend. I’ll probably get the sack soon because of that article.”

He doesn’t say anything, but Darcy’s glad. She’s sure Lupin has likely already guessed the kinds of trouble the article would bring her, but it’s nice not to have to hear ‘I told you so’.

“I could be yours again,” she continues, kissing the top of his head. “If you stay.”

“I can’t stay,” Lupin says, lifting his head to look up at her. “I’m the only one for the job. You know that.”

“Would it kill you to commit to me?”

Lupin scoffs, a clever smile on his face. “It very well could.”

“Don’t be smart,” she says coldly, grabbing his wrists and attempting to pull his hands off her.

They wrestle for a moment, and Lupin’s hands overtake hers easily, fingers gripping her wrists tight. “I’m not being smart,” he hisses. “Haven’t I done enough to you? Umbridge torturing you about me isn’t enough? Your uncle beating you black and blue over pictures and letters? Wait until he finds out where you’ve placed that pretty mouth of yours . . . won’t be very pleased, will—”

Darcy grabs her pillow and smacks him hard across the face with it. “What is wrong with you?”

Lupin tears the pillow away from her when she hits him in the face a second time, throwing it to the ground. “Do you _like_ being punished?” he asks in a low growl. “Because it’s only going to get worse from here. What do you think Umbridge will do if she really wants answers, when she wants to find me? You think she’ll stick to your hands? What happens if she finds out we’re in a relationship? You think she won’t find some piss poor reason to drag you to Azkaban just for the fun of it?”

“Stop it.”

Lupin scoffs again. “You think I don’t know what people say to you because of me? You think I have to read those letters to know what’s in them?” He looks away from her, his jaw clenched in frustration. “So no, Darcy, I’m not going to commit to anything with you, because I know what commitment with me will bring for you, even if you choose to ignore it.”

“So what am I to you, then?” Darcy asks, blushing furiously and wanting to cry. “A quick fuck for when you’re lonely?”

She goes to move off him, but Lupin catches her before she can get off. His hands hold her by the upper arms, and Darcy squirms. “Maybe I’m afraid I’m going to leave and not see you again,” he says. “Maybe I’m selfish and don’t want anyone else to have you. Maybe I’m selfish and don’t want anyone else to touch you, or kiss you.”

For a moment, Darcy is compelled to spit in his face that Snape had tried to kiss her, just to get a reaction out of him. But as quickly as the thought surfaces, it disappears. She knows confessing to that will only cause a more heated argument, will only promote anger in Lupin, something she wishes to avoid. “Maybe I don’t want anyone touching or kissing you, either,” Darcy whispers, and he releases her arms, his hands moving to hold her face.

He kisses her deeply for a moment, uncaring about the stale taste of vomit she’s sure is still present. When Lupin pulls away, Darcy is left breathless and panting. He looks at her for a long time, pressing his lips to hers once more in another bruising kiss, one of his hands tangling in her hair at the base of her neck. Darcy wishes he would never stop, but as soon as she thinks it, he breaks it, “Do you like it when I kiss you, love?” Lupin breathes.

“Are you finished mocking me?”

Lupin falters, his face softening, the grip in her hair loosening. “I’m sorry,” he sighs, looking very sorry indeed. “I’m not mocking you, and you’re certainly not a quick fuck for when I’m lonely.”

Darcy leans in to rest her forehead against his. “Then yeah, I like it when you kiss me.”

He indulges her, this time with a softer and gentler kiss.

“Are you going to give me a proper goodbye this time? A proper kiss before I send you away, not knowing if you’ll come back to me?” Darcy asks him, frowning and furrowing her brow. “You will come back, won’t you?”

“I’ll do my best,” Lupin answers, pulling her to him again. “As for a proper send-off . . . I have something much more filthy in mind than a kiss. But . . . we can arrange that at a later time, I think.”

“You can bring the pictures,” Darcy smiles, placing featherlight kisses to his cheek and jaw. “That way you’ll remember to think of me everyday.”

“As if I need pictures to remind me to think of you,” Lupin replies tiredly, a warm smile crossing his face, making Darcy’s heart flutter. He brushes his fingers over the scars on her shoulder, sighing heavily and sitting up to rest his forehead to her chest, his arms around her waist.

Darcy combs the back of his hair with her fingers, kissing the top of his head. “I know that I do not deserve it after all the times you’ve asked me to stay and I refused,” she murmurs in his ear. “But please, Remus . . . don’t go back. Stay here with me. Let’s be a family again.”

“I’ve told you, Darcy . . . if not me, then who?”

Darcy’s heart breaks, but she forces herself not to cry. “When?”

“A few days from now. I had to say goodbye to you, didn’t I?”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. She wonders if it would have been kinder not to say goodbye at all. “Will you hold me?”

Lupin looks up at her, nodding. Darcy climbs off him, curling up at his side once more and resting her cheek to his chest, closing her eyes as strong arms wrap around her, rough fingers tracing patterns on her skin. She listens again to the steady beating of his heart, hoping that this will not be the last time she hears it.

* * *

“All right, I’ve got half a bottle of firewhisky and a warm bottle of Chardonnay. What’ve you got, Em?”

Emily digs around in her bag. “Bottle of red . . . vodka . . .”

Gemma makes a disgusted noise, earning her a scathing look from Emily. “Least it’s not gin . . . remember Carla used to always bring gin? I think she secretly liked it.” She claps her hands together, smiling wickedly. “All right, Sirius, you’re up.”

“Half a bottle of firewhisky, half a bottle of red wine, a very, _very_ old bottle of champagne.” Sirius pushes his alcohol into the middle of the kitchen table beside the large pile of unopened letters. He looks very much a bit again, looking forward to a secret party after curfew at school. “Moony, what did you bring?”

“Why do you have to do that?” Gemma asks, laughing as she lights a cigarette. When Emily reaches greedily for it across the table, Gemma throws the soft pack of cigarettes at her. “Call each other by nicknames? Do you realize how embarrassing that is for the rest of us?”

“Believe it or not, girls ate that shit up at school,” Sirius answers with a lazy wave of his hand, accepting a cigarette from Emily with a muttered thank you.

“What? As if any girl would be caught dead screaming your nickname in bed,” Gemma replies with her eyebrows raised. She looks past Darcy, fumbling with a match for her cigarette, to look at Lupin. “What’d you bring, _Moony_?”

Lupin gives her a pointed look for a second before retrieving an unopened bottle of gin from the ground beside him. Groans erupt around the table, and Gemma slams a hand down on the table, protesting and complaining loudly. “It came out of Sirius’ pantry,” Lupin says defensively, holding up his hands in surrender. “Don’t blame me for the selection. Darcy will drink it, won’t you, love?”

He looks expectantly at her as she takes the first pull of her cigarette. “No,” she answers. “I hate gin.”

“She’ll drink it when she gets a few other drinks in her first,” Emily shrugs, waiting for Darcy to pull out the drinks she’s accumulated. Unfortunately, Darcy has no alcohol to produce.

“See, funny thing,” Darcy says, clearing her throat and leaning forward to ash her cigarette in the ashtray in front of Sirius, opposite her. “My liquor cabinet seems to have mysteriously run dry.”

“Merlin’s beard, Darcy! I only gave you two bottles of wine last weekend,” Gemma chuckles, sounding exasperated. Smiling at Darcy, she adds, “We’ll let it slide this time . . . your house, and all . . .”

“I provided the entertainment,” Darcy retorts, motioning to the letters piled in front of them all. There must be a hundred of all different sizes and colors. “Does that count for something? It’s not everyday you get to read terrible things about me while I’m sitting right here.”

Glasses are retrieved, bottles are opened, and everyone barters for a few moments. Once the noise settles and everyone is happily drinking, smacking their lips and fidgeting awkwardly, clearly waiting to open the letters, Darcy drains her glass of wine and allows Gemma to refill it. She looks up to find everyone watching her.

The anxiety has begun to settle in. Darcy knows what kinds of things will likely be written in those letters, if the first one was any indication. But if the article has convinced even just one person, she knows it will all have been worth it. Her mouth suddenly feels very dry, despite the firewhisky she’s nursing, and she begins to wonder if this was a huge mistake. The last thing she wants is for Sirius, her godfather, to read disgusting things said about her and his friend. She doesn’t want Lupin to have to read long, hateful rants about how werewolves are nothing but beasts and monsters. Her heart races furiously, painfully, loudly, drowning out the sounds from the kitchen.

A hand touching hers brings her out of her reverie. Darcy looks down to find Lupin’s fingers lacing with hers in clear view of everyone else, right atop the table. She looks him in the face, nervous beyond belief. “You know you don’t have to do this,” he says, and everyone nods in agreement. “We could just toss them all into the fire now and be done with it.”

“No,” she insists quickly. “Have at them.”

Everyone begins to reach again, picking out letters at random and beginning to read them. Only Lupin stays his hand, still clutching onto Darcy’s clammy and trembling one, only reaching for a letter when Darcy does. They let go of each other and hold their letters at the ready. Her friends and Sirius are all watching her again, waiting for further instruction.

“Remember,” Darcy says nervously, fingering the edges of the envelope in her hands. “Bad ones . . . just toss them right into the fire. Good ones, just place in a pile. I’ll want to read them all.”

Before anyone opens the first letters, Gemma pours them all small shots of gin, and all five of them lift them in a silent toast, drinking with many groans and shudders and disgusted looks. Darcy opens the first letter abruptly and everyone follows her lead.

_Darcy,_

_I appreciate your courage in standing up for these creatures, but while you may be interested in mating with half-breeds, the rest of us aren’t_ —

“Hey!” Emily shouts excitedly, and Darcy’s glad for an excuse to stop reading the short, scribbled letter. “This one’s from Charlie, Darcy. He says great job, he supports you one hundred percent, and next time he’s home, dinner’s on him.”

Darcy tosses her letter into the ‘bad’ pile as Emily tosses Charlie’s in the ‘good’ pile. Gemma hums at hers and throws it into the bad pile, while Sirius reads his looking pensive. Darcy glances beside her to gauge Lupin’s reaction, and it’s much worse than she had anticipated. There’s a look of utter disgust on his face, his lips slightly parted, eyes darting back and forth across the parchment so fast that Darcy wonders how he’s even reading it. The writing is so tiny, and there’s so much of it. His cheeks turn bright pink and he scoffs.

“This is . . . this is just _obscene_ —” Lupin snarls, crumpling the parchment and throwing it directly into the fire, but he continues to stammer and mutter under his breath, clutching his goblet of wine so tight that Darcy is worried it might burst. “The audacity . . . didn’t even sign his name . . . disgusting . . .” He meets her eyes for a moment, and Darcy looks back at him, bewildered. And before she can say a word to him or ask about the letter’s contents, Lupin is kissing her hard, as if trying to make a point.

“All right, all right—that’s enough of that!” Sirius shouts, banging his fist on the table. “ _Hey_ —Remus, come off it! That’s my goddaughter you’re snogging!”

Lupin pulls away quickly, as if just now remembering the kitchen is full of people. “You shouldn’t read these, Darcy,” Lupin says, still angry. Darcy blinks in surprise, her senses not having caught up yet. “Let us sort through them and then you can read the ones that aren’t so . . . _vivid_.”

“No,” Darcy counters, frowning. “They’re my letters in the first place.”

“Oh, Darcy, listen to this one from some man in Manchester . . .” Gemma sits up a little straighter and reads to the room at large, glancing up every so often, not to Darcy, but at Lupin. “‘. . . am writing to you because I haven’t been able to get that picture of you out of my head. I’ve been dreaming of you, what it would be like to pull hard on that long hair of yours and’—”

“That’s enough,” Lupin hisses, reaching right past Darcy to snatch the letter from Gemma’s hands. He does the same to this one and he did to the last, making sure it’s burned immediately. Darcy blushes upon seeing his cheeks so flushed, his leg bouncing quickly beneath the table. “No one wants to hear that.”

“Emily might,” Gemma says, reaching for another letter. “She likes those gross romance novels, don’t you, Em? Kind of the same thing, right?”

Emily blushes, too. “Shut up, Gemma.”

The opening and closing of the front door in the distance is barely heard by Darcy over everyone’s low voices. “I’ll go see who’s here,” she says, wanting to stand up, stretch her legs, remove herself from the stifling kitchen. No one protests, and Darcy closes the kitchen door behind her, making her way to the front of the house. She doesn’t really know who to expect, assuming it’s probably Tonks, but she certainly doesn’t expect Professor Snape standing there, looking distracted.

“Professor Snape, what are you doing here?”

He looks up at her from his feet, still in the process of removing his faded traveling cloak. “Darcy,” Snape says, sounded winded. “We need to talk, in private. Now.”

Immediately, Darcy’s heart sets to racing again. “What’s happened?” She sweeps over to him, grabbing at the front of his robes, feeling desperate. “Is it Harry? What’s wrong?”

Snape grabs her by the wrists, glancing around to make sure no one else is watching. He nearly drags her to the drawing room. Slamming the door closed, he reaches into his robes and pulls out another small stack of letters, untouched and bound with some string. He tosses them onto the sofa. “Your brother is fine,” Snape finally says, and Darcy inhales deeply, having forgotten to breathe for a moment. He takes a step closer to her. “I need you to listen to me, Darcy. I need you to listen and to not interrupt me and not ask questions, do you understand?”

Darcy stammers awkwardly, unsure of how to answer. Snape claps his hands on her shoulders and gives her a slight shake. “Yes, I understand. What’s going on? Are you all right? Do you want to sit down?”

Snape doesn’t answer for a moment, nor does he move. “From now until I say so, I do not want you leaving this house or Hogwarts without me.”

“You’re always with me when I leave Hogwarts and here,” Darcy says slowly, narrowing her eyes. “Professor, what’s going on?”

“Don’t ask questions, Darcy.” He squeezes her shoulders gently, leading her to the sofa and sitting down beside her. His voice is urgent and curt. “If anyone tries to speak with you . . . to try and bargain with you, or . . . tempt you . . .”

“Professor Snape,” she whispers. “You’re scaring me.”

Snape squeezes her shoulders tighter. “Whatever I may say to you . . . I need you to trust me.”

Darcy shakes his hands off her shoulders, moving slightly away from him. “You’re frightening me.”

“I need you to trust me,” Snape repeats, clenching his hands in front of him. “Whatever happens, Darcy, I need you to trust me. Promise me.”

She hesitates, trying to read his mind, trying to understand. Fear floods her—the fear of the unknown, the fear of uncertainty, the fear of danger. “Professor Snape—”

“Promise me you won’t go anywhere alone or talk to anyone you don’t know. Promise me that you will not ask questions, that you will trust me.” Snape waits for her to answer, growing visibly frustrated when she continues to stare at him. He lowers his voice, throwing a glance over his shoulder before continuing. “There is news . . . news concerning you . . . news the Headmaster has asked me to bring to Black and Lupin’s attention.”

“Is it Umbridge?” Darcy asks breathlessly.

“No.”

Darcy tenses, the hair on the back of her neck standing up. If not Umbridge, there is only one other option. She swallows loudly. “I’m safe at Hogwarts. You promised me.”

“Promise me, Darcy. Promise me that you will not listen to anything anyone says to you.”

“Okay, okay . . . I promise.”

“Darcy?” The door of the drawing room opens suddenly, and Lupin slips inside, tensing at the sight of Snape upon the sofa with Darcy. “Severus. What’s going on here?”

Snape forcibly tears his eyes away from Darcy to look at Lupin instead. “An urgent message from Dumbledore,” he says, getting to his feet and brushing off his robes. “Who else is here?”

“Gemma and Emily,” Lupin replies, casting a cautious look at Darcy. “We’re all in the kitchen. Wait here, Darcy, we’ll only be a moment.”

Darcy doesn’t answer, her pulse pounding in her ears. She watches the two of them leave, and as soon as she hears the kitchen door snap closed, she races out of the drawing room, long legs taking her gracefully and quietly down the hallway and up the stairs to her bedroom. She nearly dives to her bed, reaching under it for the Extendable Ear and running back down to the landing above the kitchen. Thankfully, in Snape’s haste to deliver the message, they’ve forgotten to use an Imperturbable Charm. Darcy lies flat on her stomach, lowering the Extendable Ear with care and watching it wriggle under the door. Inserting the other end of the string into her ear, she hears Emily speaking clearly.

“. . . there’s no way they could lure her there. Someone would notice if Darcy Potter was forcibly brought into the Ministry.”

“How would they even be able to get to her?” Lupin asks quickly. “As long as Dumbledore is at Hogwarts, no one can get to Darcy. And she’s safe here. No one could possibly find her here.”

“How much longer is Dumbledore even going to be there?” comes Sirius’ voice. “The way Darcy tells it, Umbridge is taking over the school. It’s only a matter of time before Dumbledore is forced out, and then it’ll be almost too easy for Lucius Malfoy to waltz into Hogwarts and take her. Or . . .” Sirius pauses for a long time, and the silence is unfriendly. “How do we know you aren’t going to take her? You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“If I intended Darcy any harm, why wouldn’t I have done it already?” Snape asks coolly.

“Yeah, well, I’ll be wanting to talk to Dumbledore about this,” Sirius retorts, sounding quite unaffected. “We’re in the middle of a goddamn war and he’s got my goddaughter under the _greasy_ wing of a Death Eater.”

Lupin sighs heavily. “Sirius is right, Severus. Dumbledore seemed sure just earlier this week that his time is limited . . . without him there, Darcy’s vulnerable.”

“Though not without protection,” Snape snaps quickly. “What do you think I’ve been doing these past few months? And anyway, Dumbledore does not intend to leave Darcy at Hogwarts. If the Headmaster is forced out, he knows very well what could happen to her. He intends to bring her back here.”

“Hang on,” Emily says. “Even if they were to take her, Darcy can’t retrieve it. Only the people about whom they’re made can retrieve them. I thought we had established this . . . there’s no point in luring Darcy to the Ministry if she can’t do what they want.”

“Come on, Em. They wouldn’t take her to retrieve it,” Gemma explains, sounding shaken. “They’d take her to lure Harry from Hogwarts by torturing her, or killing her. They know he would drop everything to rescue her.” There’s a heavy pause in which the only sounds are the scuffing of a chair against the floor. “This stinks of Lucius Malfoy.”

“Indeed,” Snape answers. “If . . . when . . . Dumbledore is forced out of Hogwarts, I’ll be expected to deliver her.”

“It’s impossible. If Darcy’s here, she’s safe,” Lupin insists. “We’ll all just have to make sure she doesn’t leave here for the time being. Dumbledore has a plan, of course, for getting her out safely?”

“A plan has not been confided to me,” Snape says, rather bitterly. “But I’ve no doubt she will arrive in one piece when the time comes . . .”

Darcy pulls the string out of her ear, bringing her back to reality violently. She hadn’t realized her hand had been over her mouth to stifle her loud and heavy breathing, and her chest is heaving with every breath she takes. Hurrying to pull up the Extendable Ear, not wanting to hear anymore of this conversation, Darcy pushes herself to her feet as the kitchen door opens and Snape bustles out, looking up quickly towards Darcy, leaning over the balustrade of the upper landing. They look at each other for a moment, and without another word to her, Snape makes for the front door. Darcy hears him leave and then decides to walk back down to the kitchen.

Everyone looks at her when she enters. Their eyes follow her from the threshold back to her seat, which is still warm from when she’d been sitting on it before. Darcy clears her throat. “Where were we?”

The rest of the afternoon is slow and drawn out. Darcy must read the same letters several times—letters that insult her and her reputation, calling her names that would make Vernon proud; ones that applaud her bravery, but have only written to praise Harry; men who describe, in great detail, what they’d very much like to do to Darcy, things that have nothing to do with her article at all (these annoy Lupin greatly, and his face darkens with each one they read); death threats and other, more degrading threats; cruel promises from other werewolves to bite her, to hurt her, coercing her to join them if she’s as brave as she seems (these make Lupin’s face pale); letters insulting Lupin, calling for him to be put down, attacking his characters and making up terrible lies about what happened while Darcy was his student; one marriage proposal (which is immediately thrown into the fire); two much cruder proposals that, upon being read, make Darcy sick to her stomach; and a letter that she thinks may have been sent to the wrong person completely by a man with very childlike handwriting who seems very confused.

However, despite the growing pile of bad letters and the ones now ash in the fire, there are good ones besides Charlie Weasley’s. Halfway through opening letters, Lupin finds one addressed by the werewolf they’d met at St Mungo’s, who is much more distinguished on paper. He congratulates Darcy on her article, expressing his gratitude towards her for sharing her opinion with the world and also towards Gemma, who’d taken such good care of him at St Mungo’s. When Lupin reads aloud the postscript, a scribbled thing wondering if Gemma would be willing to meet now that he’s out of the hospital, Gemma only remains quiet, ignoring Lupin completely. There’s more than that, however—most people who write kind letters are not werewolves, but normal people sharing their own experiences with werewolves, expressing the belief that they aren’t all bad, that Darcy is right. Sirius opens the letter from Jordan’s mother that she’d mentioned in the bathroom earlier that week. An anonymous letter from a man who recalls being bitten fresh out of Hogwarts praises Darcy kindly, but urges her to not publish anything else of the sort, lest she suffer the same fate as he. The man does give her certain ideas she could work with quietly, such as writing laws and presenting them to an ally within the Ministry to slap their name on it, or to help abolish the Werewolf Registry completely.

By the end of the last letter, including the ones Snape has brought, Darcy is emotionally and mentally exhausted, slightly drunk, and restless. Emily, still relatively sober, kisses Darcy hard on the cheek before taking her leave, and Gemma is shortly behind her, promising to return in the morning. Sirius excuses himself to feed Buckbeak and, knowing he’s going to be a while, Darcy leaves Lupin to sit in the drawing room, warming herself by the fire on the comfortable sofa.

Darcy hardly gets to dwell on anything she’s just heard or read, as Lupin follows her into the drawing room, sitting down on the sofa opposite her with a new glass of wine. He fingers the rim of it, watching Darcy carefully, making her blush furiously. She’s sure that he knows what she’s overheard given by the nervous look about him, but for some reason, he refuses to ask her about it. Privately, selfishly, she wonders if what Lupin has just heard from Snape will make him want to stay, to make sure she’s safe, to make sure someone is here to care for her.

“Play the piano for me, love.”

She doesn’t know what makes her do it. Obeying without question, her legs stand of their own accord and take her to the bench in front of the piano. Aligning her fingers, they work almost mechanically, Lupin’s favorite piano sonata filling the drawing room, floating through the house. Instead of a song of loss this time, it is a song of pleading. Instead of begging on her knees for him to stay, she begs with the keys of the piano, begging for a life with him, promising to wake him with this song every morning he wishes to wake to it, promising to love him like she used to. As she watches her long fingers move amongst the keys, Darcy imagines a thin ring around her left hand, settled perfectly upon her finger, and on Lupin’s, the ring’s match.

Thoughts of Death Eaters invade her private fantasies, Lucius Malfoy stealing her away from Hogwarts in the dead of night, Snape conspiring with the Death Eaters to snatch her, to lure Harry somewhere. The thought of what they might do to her scares her to no end, the thought of being tortured into madness like Neville’s parents, or killed like her own in order to coerce Harry to find Voldemort. At one time, Darcy had thought Hogwarts to be the safest place in the world . . . _what a load of rubbish_ , Darcy thinks. She needs both hands to count how many times she’s almost died at Hogwarts, how many injuries she’s sustained. Now, nowhere is safe, it seems. Danger lurks in every corner when you bear the last name ‘Potter’, and danger is inevitable and death seems just out of reach, dangerously closer and closer with everyday that passes.

And as tears begin to build painfully in her eyes, Darcy stops playing abruptly, her elbows coming to rest on the keys and making them ring sharply throughout her head. She holds her face in her hands and starts to cry, blushing in the firelight, humiliated and ashamed and frightened.

“Darcy . . . Darcy, it’s okay, my love . . .” Lupin places his hands upon her shoulders, squeezing as he kneels beside her. “Come here.”

Darcy turns to face him, wrapping her arms around his neck and crying into his shoulder. Lupin holds her face in his hands, presses kisses to her cheeks, his lips coming back wet with her tears. He smooths her hair back as Darcy clutches onto his arms, fingernails digging into his biceps.

“No one’s going to take you, I swear it,” he whispers, kissing her temple again, resting his cheek against hers. “Do you believe me, Darcy? I won’t let anyone take you from me.”

Trembling all over, Darcy looks him in the face, his shaggy hair (Darcy’s still unsure how it could possibly grow so quickly) falling into his eyes, his beard uneven and growing in around one of the newer scars he’d acquired on his last mission, a bright pink thing running from the right corner of his lip to just below his jawline. Lupin’s thumbs brush the tears off her face, tracing the sharp line of her jaw.

“I don’t want to die,” Darcy cries softly, eyes flicking to his lips and back.

Lupin shakes his head. “You’re not going to die,” he breathes, kissing her lips so softly that Darcy isn’t really sure he’s done it at all. All she knows is that his beard tickles the skin around her mouth and she can feel his breathe on her mouth. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Darcy runs a hand through his hair, flattening the back of it. So used to Harry’s hair not wanting to lie flat at all, Darcy is still pleasantly surprised when Lupin’s hair doesn’t immediately pop right back up. “I want my dad,” she whispers, surprised that a blush doesn’t creep up her face at such a blunt and honest confession. “I miss dad.”

“I know.” Lupin tucks her hair behind her ear, sighing. “What I wouldn’t give to see your dad right now, too.” He smiles weakly at her, lowering her hands to take her own. “Come sit with me.”

Darcy gets up from the bench, moving over to the sofa, led by Lupin. He doesn’t release her hand until she’s sitting again, and when she does, Lupin reclines back on the arm of the sofa, allowing her space to lie down between his legs, resting her head against his chest as his fingers thread through her hair. Darcy closes her eyes as the beating of his heart begins to lull her to sleep, and when Lupin reaches for a blanket to throw over her, Darcy sighs shakily. She wraps her arms around his torso, relishing this feeling that she always thinks she’ll never feel again.

“Why does life have to be hard for us?” she rasps, wiping her eyes on his sweater, feeling guilty about staining it with tears after doing it. “Why can’t we just . . . why can’t we just have a normal life?”

Lupin takes a moment to answer, shifting slightly underneath her. Darcy opens her eyes to keep herself from falling asleep. “When I was younger,” he begins, “just after your parents died, after Sirius went to Azkaban and Peter . . .” He hesitates, and Darcy has no desire to push him if he doesn’t wish to continue, but he does. “I used to ask, why me? How much pain and loss and grief can one person possibly handle? It wasn’t enough that I am a werewolf, but I had to lose all of my friends, as well? And one day, I’d wandered into a church, drunk, exhausted, hungry, probably hadn’t had a proper wash in days. All I wanted was answers.”

After a considerable pause, Darcy asks, “Did you find any?”

“Not there, no.” Lupin looks down at her, exhaling through his nose, brushing her hair out of her face. “There was a woman, though, who’d noticed me. An old woman, who brought me back to her flat. She fed me, nearly scrubbed my skin right off, let me sleep in a real bed for a night. When she asked me what I had hoped to find within the church, I was honest with her. I told her that I’d lost my friends, had nowhere to go, no job, no money, and I just wanted to know why it had to be me.”

Darcy furrows her brow, waiting with bated breath for his answer.

“She told me that maybe I suffer to save someone else the pain,” Lupin says, scoffing. “What a load of shite. I told her so as I left her flat. I didn’t even thank her for all that she did for me. But now, I think . . . I can live with the suffering and pain if it means keeping you from hurting more. If I must live with my lycanthropy, I find it is much easier to deal with when I think I’m possibly saving you from this fate.”

“What a load of shite, Remus Lupin,” Darcy replies quietly, lifting her head to look at him. He doesn’t look bewildered or puzzled in the slightest, but almost as if he’s expected her to disagree with him. “We suffer because we’re unlucky people. We suffer because the universe hates us.”

“I’m not so unlucky,” he whispers, resting his arm behind his head and closing his eyes. With his free arm, he wraps it around Darcy best he can. Darcy rests her head against him again, watching the flames dancing in the hearth. “If I was, I wouldn’t be here with you now, curled up on my chest.”

Darcy smiles against his shirt.

“‘For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings’,” Lupin murmurs sleepily. “‘That then I scorn to change my state with kings.’”

“I like that poem.”

“I know you do. Is it still your favorite?”

“I don’t know anymore, I haven’t really thought about it. You were the only one who ever bothered to ask me what my favorite poem was.” Darcy frowns, remembering that day well. It had been the first night they’d had dinner in his private apartments, seated before the fire. She’d been hopelessly in love with him even then. “Do you want to hear one?”

“I’d love to hear one.”

She smiles again. “‘Life of my life, you seem to me like some pallid olive tree or the faded rose I see’,” Darcy begins softly. Lupin’s thumb brushes over her shoulder. “‘Nor do you lack beauty, but pleasing in every way to me, in shyness or in flattery, whether you follow me or flee’ . . .” Darcy pauses, and he waits patiently for her to finish. “‘Consume, destroy me softly.’”

Lupin is quiet for a moment, so still and so quiet that Darcy thinks he’s gone to sleep. And then—“I think I quite like that one.”

Darcy kisses him through his shirt, nuzzling into the warmth. “I think I quite like you, Remus.”

“Yeah?” Lupin chuckles softly. He pauses again, and Darcy wishes he’d stop pausing, for her anxiety spikes each time, but his words are the most comforting thing she knows when next he speaks. “I think I quite like you, too.”

* * *

Darcy wakes the next morning confused and bleary-eyed, cold now that the fire has died, and yet very, very comfortable despite lying in such an awkward position, her cheek pressed against Lupin’s stomach, both of them still fully clothed and Lupin still wearing his shoes. She can hear shuffling on the other side of the door, someone making their way up the stairs just above the drawing room. It’s then that she notices her camera sitting on the coffee table, on top of a picture. Darcy sits up, reaching for it curiously, flipping it over in her hands.

Darcy looks down at the photograph, such a beautiful picture that it may well be her new favorite one. Taken from above, from a height that Darcy thinks to associate with Gemma, the picture looks down on Lupin and Darcy, asleep and tangled together, the blanket pulled up to her chin, her hand clutching the front of his shirt, his fingers loosely tangled in her hair, one of his legs hanging off the edge of the sofa. The morning sunshine shining through the windows seems to make Darcy’s fair skin glow bright, and Lupin’s hair seems golden and lacking any sign of age.

“Darcy?” Lupin sits up quickly upon realizing she’s no longer lying on him, in a panic, exhaling in relief when he finds her just sitting on the edge of the sofa. He rubs his eyes with his knuckles. “What’ve you got there, love?”

She shows him the photograph, and Lupin takes it gingerly from her, admiring it for a moment. He looks at it for much longer than Darcy thinks necessary, finally handing it back to her by the tips of his index and middle fingers. Darcy smiles sheepishly at him, taking the picture back.

“Sorry for any aches or pains that I’ve caused you,” she says apologetically.

Lupin smiles, but doesn’t answer. His fingers touch her chin, tilting her head back. Slowly, he leans in to kiss her, just a small thing, hesitant and curious. He kisses her again, just barely on the corner of her mouth. Darcy’s eyes close, opening again only when he speaks, When he finally does speak, it’s hardly an inch from her lips. “Did you sleep well?”

Darcy isn’t sure why the words take her breath away. “Yes.”

He continues to smile, looking very pleased with himself. “Breakfast?”

“Please.”

Taking her by the hand, Lupin helps her to her feet, a hand on the small of her back as he leads Darcy to the kitchen, where Gemma and Sirius are already dressed and nearly done eating. Gemma flips through the pages of the most recent Witch Weekly magazine, and Sirius looks up immediately from his breakfast to Darcy and Lupin.

“Well, well, well . . .” Sirius says slowly, lowering his fork and leaning back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. There’s an expression on his face that plainly states he’s not amused by the scene before him. “Look who finally decided to join us. Detached yourselves, have you?”

“Come off it, Padfoot,” Lupin retorts, his cheeks slightly pink, but not half as pink as Darcy’s. “We were only sleeping.”

“Sleeping with my goddaughter, kissing my goddaughter—”

“Sirius,” Gemma snaps, and Sirius stops talking abruptly, turning towards Gemma with a bewildered expression at the sound of his name spoken with such venom. “He said shut up, so shut up.”

Sirius continues to grumble under his breath, arms folded over his chest, but with this being nothing new, everyone already knows how to tune it out.

* * *

It’s difficult saying goodbye when everyone is so interesting in watching them. Sirius lingers towards the back of the hallway, skulking, but Snape seems determined to give them next to no privacy. Darcy wishes they would understand, act like grown men and turn the other way, or go into another room. Instead, they watch as Lupin squeezes Darcy’s hands awkwardly.

“Perhaps we could . . . step into the kitchen?” Lupin whispers, smiling apologetically.

“No,” Snape replies, almost too quickly, earning himself a dangerous look from Darcy. “You can say goodbye here. Come on, Darcy, we’re running behind.”

“Nothing is going to happen if we get back five minutes later than usual, you know,” Darcy snaps, blushing fiercely. Her cheeks already feeling as if they’re on fire, Darcy looks back at Lupin to see him smiling wider and her cheeks burn even worse. She lowers her voice, rolling her eyes. “The price of being a Potter, I suppose. An inability to get me alone.”

“I’ve never minded,” Lupin tells her with a small laugh, making Snape groan and Sirius scoff. He places a hand to the side of her face, and the small gesture makes Darcy want to cry. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, all right?”

Darcy bites down on her lip and nods, adjusting the front of his sweater, brushing it off, forcing herself not to cry. I’ll see him soon, she tells herself, It won’t be forever. He’ll come back, he has to, he promised. “Do you have everything? The potion, your things . . . don’t forget your gray sweater—it’s still in my room from when I darned it—”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve got everything. Thank you.”

Darcy nods again, suddenly wrapping her arms around his neck. Lupin nearly lifts her off her feet when he hugs her back. “Be careful,” she whispers in his ear.

“Always.”

“Promise you’ll come home.”

“I promise.”

Darcy squeezes tighter, combing his hair flat with her fingers just to make sure she doesn’t forget the feeling of it anytime soon. “I love you,” she breathes.

“Let’s _go_ , Darcy,” Snape snarls, flinging the front door open and revealing the chill, spring night to them.

Darcy releases Lupin, and he bends down to grab her bag off the ground, helping it onto her shoulder. Looking around nervously, avoiding Sirius’ eyes and looking pointedly into Snape’s, Lupin finally kisses her. She blushes, and when he pulls away, Darcy sees that he’s turned slightly pink, as well. “I’ll see you soon,” he smiles, taking a step back from her. “Just a few weeks.”

She watches him for a moment, despite Snape tugging at her wrist. Heart beating very fast, mind buzzing with thoughts of Lupin showing up bruised and bloody like the last time (she tries not to think of him dead), Darcy sighs. “Okay.”

When Snape brings her back to Hogsmeade, the walk back to the castle is quiet and cold. Darcy, too busy thinking about the worst possible outcomes of Lupin’s mission, barely registers Snape drape his cloak around her shoulders after a solid few minutes of shivering violently in the mountain wind. “He’ll be fine, you know,” Snape says abruptly, startling Darcy out of her own head. Clutching the cloak around her tighter as another gust of wind takes her hair, Darcy looks up at Snape with an incredulous expression painted on her face. “You shouldn’t waste all of your energy just worrying about him. He knows what he’s getting himself into.”

“Just because he understands what could happen doesn’t mean I shouldn’t worry about him,” Darcy says softly, too tired to argue with him. “I don’t think I could live knowing he’ll never come back.”

“You lived just fine without him for most of your life,” Snape muses, sounding far too smug for his own good. “You have far too much to focus on here than whether or not your precious werewolf is going to come back still loving you.”

“You’re right,” Darcy says, nodding, and it’s Snape’s turn to give her an incredulous look. She shrugs her shoulders. “He has his mission, and I have mine.”

“That was a very . . . sudden change of attitude, but . . . I suppose it will do.”

“The sooner this is all over, the sooner I’ll be able to have a family again,” Darcy tells him firmly. “The sooner this is all over . . .” She trails off, looking down at her left hand, extending her slender fingers. “Maybe I’ll be able to have everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“Like?”

“A husband,” Darcy answers immediately. She sees Snape scrunch his nose and sighs, lowering her hand. “And children. Just one. Maybe two, who would never have to know a life without their parents. A yellow house with a garden.”

Snape scoffs. “How touching.”

Darcy bristles, sticking her nose in the air as they reach the front doors to Hogwarts. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Understand what? That you’ve sorely lacked love and affection your entire life, so you seek it in the form of Lupin? That what you missed out on in your youth, you would want for your children?”

Blushing, Darcy shrugs off Snape’s cloak, handing it back to him. He hangs it off his arm, eyebrows raised. “All right, you don’t have to go on. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve known you since you were eleven-years-old, Darcy. I know you better than you think.” Darcy thinks Snape is going to leave it at that, but a malicious grin spreads across his sallow face, and Darcy knows that whatever he’s going to say is going to anger her. “Is a . . . man like him even _capable_  of having children? And if so, what are the chances that you’ll end up birthing cubs?”

Darcy was wrong. His statement doesn’t anger her, it infuriates her. “That’s very rude,” she hisses. “I don’t think you have any right at all to speak about children I may or may not have in the future. Why do you have to ruin everything? Do you think you’re funny?”

Snape doesn’t seem ready to apologize, though Darcy hadn’t expected him to.

“You must be very lonely, Professor Snape,” Darcy finishes, heading for the marble staircase. She stops at the bottom, looking over her shoulder at him. “I hope that whatever woman you ever desire in the future is near perfect, or else I may have some choice words for you after all you’ve said about Remus. If you can ever find a woman who actually wants you in the first place, because I certainly don’t.”

Snape’s face flushed an ugly magenta, and feeling rather pleased with herself, Darcy continues up the stairs without looking back at him. 


	50. Chapter 50

Darcy lays awake for a long time that night, staring up at the ceiling, listening to Max come and go as he pleases through the open window. The bedroom smells heavily of cigarette smoke, but it doesn’t bother Darcy anymore. It always has a stale smell of smoke about it now, anyway. She raises the lit cigarette in her fingers to her lips, noticing for the first time through the darkness that her hand is trembling.

She can’t pretend that Snape’s words haven’t gotten to her. They had angered her at first, seemingly an unwarranted attack on Lupin due to—what Darcy suspects—jealousy. She’s sure that Snape had not meant it in a very truthful way. She’s sure Snape had only said it to hurt her, to dash any hope of her dreams of a future with Lupin, the future she’d always pictured before Lupin even came back to Hogwarts. Her dream of children running around her house, at least one of them with her eyes and her hair, or maybe a son with James’ angled face and long nose. She had never considered a life without children before, and the thought of not being able to have that makes her heart hurt something awful.

Darcy tries to think of it from a different perspective. After all, life had thrown her the ultimate curve ball when it had sent her Lupin, and while the dream of children had been discussed light-heartedly, as a reassuring promise, they had never actually been serious about it. Darcy has not forgotten how old Lupin is, has sometimes considered the idea he may not even want children when the war ends—if he even still wants to be with her by then, because the war doesn’t seem close to over even now. And though Darcy isn’t keen on giving up her dream, she can’t see what would be so bad about being with him, marrying him, living the rest of her life with him, even if it is without children. It’s not like she’d want to settle down with anyone else . . . it’s not his fault if he can’t have children, and she would never blame him for that in the slightest. Darcy could mask her disappointment, but knows she could never mention it to his face out of sheer love for him.

Is it possible Snape is onto something? All the times that she and Lupin had slept together from that first night in April so long ago all the way up until the most recent time, just last Friday, nothing had ever happened. There had never been any scares, there had never been any worries, especially with Darcy’s own time of the month being so irregular, sometimes not coming for months at a time. Mrs. Duncan had once told her at only fourteen-years-old that it was likely severe stress that caused her to be so irregular. It hits Darcy now just how reckless they’d been, how stupid they’d been to not bother worrying about things like that. But if something was going to happen, why hadn’t it happened already? Of all the hundreds of times, why hadn’t anything happened? Lupin had told her it had taken James and Lily just one time for Lily to become pregnant with Darcy.

And then a thought snakes its way into Darcy’s brain that makes it hard to breathe. What if it’s not Lupin? _What if it’s me?_ It’s not like Lupin had been the first person she’d slept with . . . she had allowed Oliver to finish inside of her several times before, and nothing happened then, either. Her throat suddenly constricts at the knowledge that she may never be able to bear children, no matter whose. Darcy sits up, puts her cigarette out, and tries to breathe.

_My parents, my freedom, my dreams._ What more could life possibly take from her? Darcy lies back down, letting out a choked sob so loud that it startles Max right out of the window where he’d been perched. She covers her face as fat tears slide down her cheeks, sobbing into her hands, and after hours of it—until her throat is raw and she can’t see through her swollen eyes and her back still jumps every so often with a hiccup and feeling more alone than she’s ever felt before—Darcy curls up on top of her blankets, her knees nearly pulled up to her chest, and finally lets sleep take her.

* * *

Darcy is well aware that Snape sees the state she’s in at breakfast Monday morning. Besides the fact that he keeps leaning over his plate under the guise of reading from Darcy’s newspaper, she notices his eyes fixed upon her face for many long seconds before tearing his gaze away. She had tried everything to combat her swollen, red-rimmed eyes, eventually giving it up as a bad job, accepting the fact that Snape will have to see the effect his words had had on her.

“Did you sleep well last night?” Snape murmurs, catching Darcy’s eye and softening.

“What do you think?” she hisses back, returning to her breakfast and paper, trying hard not to look at him, but she can feel Snape’s eyes still on her face.

When she finishes with breakfast, she leaves the Great Hall early. Snape follows her out, just as he does every morning, like a trained dog. The thought of her having any amount of power over Snape makes Darcy’s stomach squirm, gives her a perverted sense of pleasure. Even if it’s something he will never admit to, having leverage over him after being at his mercy for years is something that appeals very greatly to Darcy.

But something about how hard he slams the door unsettles her. Darcy drops her bag on the ground beside Snape’s desk and looks up at him. He moves so quickly towards her that it’s almost as if he’s floating, and Darcy makes sure to keep the desk between them.

“I’m sorry,” Snape says quietly, apologizing in a way that Darcy is used to—as if the words physically pain him when leaving his mouth. “I . . . I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Darcy replies, crossing her arms over her chest. She blushes, hating her body for giving her away. “You meant to hurt me, and you were cruel about Remus. Didn’t you listen to anything I said to you on Friday?”

“Of course I did—”

“So why did you say it?” Darcy asks again, inhaling deeply. “If you know me as well as you claim to, you would know that people have not been kind to me for nearly all of my life. So why do you continue to deliberately hurt me?”

Snape doesn’t answer her. He’s looking at her curiously, as if seeing her clearly for the first time. Darcy wishes he would yell at her, or even hit her—that would be much kinder than what her body decides to do, cry like she always does, cry like a little girl. She wipes her tears furiously with the sleeve of her robes.

“Do you think I not been kind to you?” she rasps, feeling more embarrassed by the second. “I thought . . . I thought I was. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You . . .” Snape blinks, snapping out of whatever reverie he was in. “You are . . . very like your mother.”

“I’m not my mother.”

“I know,” he says, furrowing his brow, looking into Darcy’s bright green eyes. “I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

Darcy exhales, not wanting to argue, not wanting to cry anymore. “It’s okay,” she whispers, as the bell rings. She wipes her eyes again as the first years take their seats, grabbing a stack of parchment out of her bed and grinning at them. “Hope you all did the reading I set you, because we’re starting our Monday morning with a test.”

There’s a collective groan.

“Just kidding,” Darcy chuckles, beckoning a slouching Ravenclaw boy forward and giving him the parchment to hand out. “I graded your last assignment.”

The students seem to heave a relieved sigh all at once. As they begin to mutter cheerily to each other, pulling out their books and quills and parchment, Darcy looks over at Professor Snape. There’s a quill in his hand, held inches from a piece of parchment, dripping ink onto it, but he doesn’t seem to care. Snape is watching her with an uncharacteristically soft expression, quickly looking back down at his parchment when Darcy catches his eye.

“Page eighty-seven, everyone,” Darcy says, opening her own book and moving towards the blackboard, smiling to herself, “and write this down . . .”

* * *

“Can you light a fire or something? Why’s it so cold in here?”

Harry shivers dramatically upon the sofa, raising his eyebrows expectantly at Darcy, looking quite disappointed when she refuses to light a fire in the hearth. “I’m not lighting a fire, unless you want Umbridge to spy on us,” Darcy snaps, closing the door to her bedroom and shouting, “Just tell me about the dream!”

“I—well, I was Voldemort in the dream, and Rookwood was there—”

Darcy pauses her rummaging in the wardrobe for a dress. “Rookwood?” she repeats, thinking hard. “The Death Eater that broke out of Azkaban?”

“Yes,” Harry affirms. “He was with Rookwood, and he was telling Voldemort that Bode couldn’t have gotten it . . . Ron and I think he was talking about the weapon, and Lucius Malfoy put Bode under the Imperius Curse.”

Grabbing a dress from her wardrobe, she can feel her brain working furiously. She holds it up to herself in the mirror, frowning suddenly. “Bode was under the Imperius Curse? And . . . Bode was killed . . .” Darcy gasps, throwing her dress on the bed and opening the bedroom door so suddenly that Harry jumps nearly an inch off the sofa, pulling his hand away from the stack of homework on the table in front of him. “Harry . . . that’s why they killed him. Bode must have resisted the Imperius Curse—it must have lifted—and they killed him so he wouldn’t talk.”

“That’s what Hermione thinks, too. He was in St Mungo’s on Christmas Day, in the ward with Lockhart and Neville’s parents,” Harry continues excitedly, sitting up straighter as Darcy paces the room. “Do you remember? His brain was all funny. Before you and Emily came in the ward, the Healer said he was recovering . . . that his speech was coming back.”

“And they didn’t want to risk Bode telling anyone what had happened once he remembered,” Darcy says breathlessly. “He would have exposed Lucius Malfoy . . . so what are the chances Malfoy was the one who sent that Devil’s Snare?”

“But that’s not it—Sturgis Podmore—Hermione said he was arrested—”

“—for trying to get through a door,” Darcy interrupts, breathing very heavily. “A door at the Ministry of Magic, but he wasn’t supposed to be there, he was supposed to come with us to King’s Cross—you’re not thinking he was Imperiused, as well? He was trying to steal the weapon?”

“Right, and now Rookwood told Voldemort how to get it, and Rookwood used to work there, so he’d know.”

“But we still don’t know what the weapon is,” Darcy says, running a hand through her hair and swearing under her breath when her fingers get caught on a tangle. “What could possibly be in the Department or Mysteries? I mean, I haven’t got a clue as what the weapon could be, and why couldn’t Bode retrieve it? What could they be keeping in there?” She stops in front of the empty fireplace, looking warily at Harry. “The Order is only guarding it . . . but why aren’t we trying to retrieve it? Something that could turn the tide for Voldemort . . . I don’t understand . . .”

“I don’t get it either, but—Darcy, what if Voldemort gets the weapon?”

Darcy considers him. She’s sure Dumbledore is keeping it safe . . . sure Dumbledore has a plan . . . or she wants to believe he does. Something else is gnawing at her, though—something that suddenly scares her very much. “Harry, I have to tell you something.”

“What?”

It takes her two long strides to make it to the sofa, where she settles gracefully beside Harry, tucking her feet underneath her. The promise she’d made to Lupin back in August suddenly rings and echoes in her head, the promise about not telling Harry more than he needs to know—but this is important, she thinks. “I need you to promise me something,” Darcy begins slowly, hating herself for sounding so like Snape. “I need you to promise me that, if I’m in danger, or—if something happens to me, you won’t do anything reckless.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asks, sounding frightened. “Is it the werewolves? What’s going on?”

“No, it’s not the werewolves, and nothing is going on. I just want you to understand that . . . I need you to just look me in the eyes and tell me you won’t do anything reckless.”

“What? No! Tell me what’s going on!”

“Harry James Potter—” Darcy points a threatening finger at him. “You promise me right now that you will not come rescue me if I need rescued—”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” Harry asks incredulously, suppressing a grin as if she’s playing a joke on him. “You sound mental.”

Darcy purses her lips, reaching for a cigarette off the table and lighting it. Harry scrunches his nose, but says nothing. She decides to say nothing more now, not while she’s not in immediate danger. “How is Occlumency going? Not well, if you’re having dreams like these.”

“Oh, don’t you start . . . Hermione’s already put me through the ringer,” Harry replies coldly.

“She’s right, Harry.” Darcy gets to her feet again, taking a long pull of her cigarette and ashing on the ground. “Remus says Occlumency is very important, and you should work as hard as you can—”

“Well, if Lupin says it, then it must be true,” Harry snaps, rather unfairly.

Darcy flashes him a stern look. “Let’s not pretend Remus doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” She sighs, looking at the back of Harry’s head as she walks behind the sofa to find her shoes. “He’s gone away again. On another mission.”

Harry’s quiet for a moment, picking at his fingernails. “When’s he coming back?”

“I don’t know,” she replies. “A few weeks, maybe.”

“How is everything? You know . . . between you guys?” Harry slowly turns, gauging her reaction to his question. He tries to look only mildly interested, casually running a hand through his hair so very like James might have.

Darcy smiles weakly at Harry, blushing. “Friday night, they all threw a small party for me, celebrating the article, you know. I was . . . _so_ drunk, throwing up everywhere,” she says, laughing. Harry forces a smile, looking slightly disgusted. “Remus took me up to bed and . . . he as good as told me he loved me, but I’ll let him have that one. I think he thought I wouldn’t remember in the morning.”

Harry doesn’t press her, and Darcy returns to the sofa, suddenly feeling dizzy and unbalanced on her feet.

“I really want children, Harry.” Darcy pauses, holding her face in her hands for a moment. “I want a baby. I wouldn’t even mind if they cried a lot.”

“What’s brought this on?” A crease appears between Harry’s eyebrows. “I know you want children. You’ve got plenty of time, you know.”

“I’d make a damn good mother,” she continues, speaking more to herself than to Harry. “I would. I’d let them eat ice cream for breakfast, and we’d eat dinner on the sofa in front of a television. And on their birthday, we’d all go to the coast and just . . . be together, do whatever families do. Not that I’d know.”

“You’d make an excellent mother.”

Darcy smiles in spite of herself. “There are some days, even now, where I see you as my own, Harry,” she says, reaching out for his hand and squeezing. “You’re getting older and I’m . . . quite sad about it. I didn’t think seeing you grow up would hurt quite as bad as this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ah, it’s not your fault,” Darcy shrugs, releasing her grip on his hand. “You’ll always be a little boy to me, crawling into my bed after a nightmare.”

Harry shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, blushing. “Come on, Darcy . . .” He checks his watch, focusing a little too intently on it. “I should head to breakfast before Umbridge realizes we’re both gone.” He nearly jumps to his feet, but instead of running out the door, he kisses the top of Darcy’s head. “Bye, Darcy.”

Darcy watches him go, unsure if she wants to smile or cry. “See ya, kid.”

* * *

She isn’t positive if it’s restlessness or loneliness that begins to affect her. Maybe it’s the fact that Umbridge has made it near impossible for Darcy to spend time with the three people she most wants to spend time with at Hogwarts, or the fact that Lupin is still gone with the werewolves and no one’s had any word from him since he left, or it could very well be the sudden and recent revelation that she may never have children, but Darcy begins to crave the end of term, the hot weather and bright sunshine, the prospect of going back to Grimmauld Place with Harry for the entire summer with their godfather.

With the weather growing warmer, Darcy takes to sitting at the edge of the lake when the grounds are nearly empty, mostly at dusk. Sometimes she dips her feet in, other times she sits cross-legged and stares out across the water, and once, she continually skips a large stone across the surface to be returned to her by a tentacle of the giant squid each and every time. Being alone is terrible, when the thoughts of her broken dreams come back to haunt her, but there seems to be nothing else to do but dwell on it. But she prefers being alone to having company, she thinks, finding being stuck in a room with people—even her friends—is suffocating and irritating at times. She’s quick to snap at them and is often cold to even her first years, but Darcy thinks if they’d just left her alone in the first place, it wouldn’t be a problem.

Days seem to go much slower than she’s ever known them to. Umbridge seems to notice Darcy moving a bit slower, a little less enthusiastic, the lack of smiling, it seems. Her face always tightens with that ugly, sneering smile of hers when they pass in the corridors, and Darcy avoids looking her in the eyes. The questioning even lessens after Dumbledore intervenes after a particularly nasty session in which Darcy had come back to Snape with bleeding hands. She hadn’t heard what was said, but Snape assures her the matter will never be as bad again. Darcy quite wishes she wouldn’t have to go through it at all, but at least the pain is _something_ to feel, even if she does leave Umbridge's office each time feeling particularly empty.

Even time spent at Grimmauld Place isn’t the same. According to Sirius, Gemma’s been working mostly overnight at St Mungo’s, which means Darcy sleeps alone at night and during the day, Gemma is either at her parents house or catching up on her sleep in Darcy’s bedroom. And while it’s clear Sirius wants to be there for Darcy, he also seems to struggle with his surging excitement of having Darcy live with him. He doesn’t hide his smiles well, only attempting to stifle them when he catches sight of Darcy’s disappointed face.

While D.A. meetings have been a blessing, as well, lately Darcy leaves swearing under her breath to herself. As much as she likes Neville, and as much as she pities him whenever he rushes over to her to apologize for knocking her backwards, Darcy doesn’t quite like leaving meetings covered in bruises. After each meeting (not that they’ve had very many), Darcy slides into a warm bath before bed to count the new bruises and check on the old ones. She isn’t sure if she’s just been knocked around too much lately or not, but her bones ache as if she’s aged thirty years overnight—her joints scream in protests whenever she brings her knees to her chest in the bath, and her lower back always hurts, especially after slamming into a brick wall several times over the course of an hour or so.

And everyday at breakfast, it’s always the same. Snape looks at her for a long time before asking, “Are you all right?”

And her answer is always the same. “I’m fine.”

It isn’t long after Darcy gives answer that she leaves the Great Hall, and always when Snape follows her out, he walks at her side instead of behind her. Darcy finds it brings her great comfort when he holds out his arm habitually for Darcy to take, and he doesn’t even complain when she digs her fingernails into him painfully. Sometime she casts a throwaway look at the staff table before they leave together; one day, Darcy catches Dumbledore’s eye, who is watching the scene most curiously, stroking his long beard. Another day, Umbridge is watching them, lost in thought. And one day, when Darcy’s innocent behavior receives sneers and scowls from many Gryffindor, she waits until she and Snape are out of sight before lifting his arm to drape it over her shoulders, her own own holding tight around his torso. He isn’t Lupin, but the feeling of someone holding her is something she doesn’t know where else to find.

One day, during lunch, Darcy spends some time alone below the beech tree her father once spent time under. With her plate off to her side, slumped against the tree trunk, occasionally plucking a grape, or making a note in the worn, paperback book in her hands, Darcy feels so at peace it’s almost painful.

It’s only when a tall shadow falls over Darcy’s book does she look up to find Professor McGonagall standing over her. “Enjoying ourselves, are we?” she asks, not unkindly. Darcy lowers her eyes back to her book. “What are you doing to that poor book?”

“It’s something Remus and I like to do,” Darcy answers, flipping a thin page. “Thought he might like something new to read when he gets back.” When Professor McGonagall doesn’t answer, only looks at the front cover, Darcy wishes she had a cigarette if only to shoo her old Professor away. “Remus gave me a poetry book for Christmas when he was teaching at Hogwarts. He’d written notes for me in the margins.”

“You’ve noticed he’s gone, then?” Professor McGonagall asks, a stupid question if Darcy’s ever heard one.

“It’s rather hard not to notice his absence,” Darcy replies coolly. “Have you had any word from him?”

“No,” McGonagall answers. “I’m sure he’s all right.” She looks around the empty grounds, brushing off her robes. “You shouldn’t be out here on your own.”

“I’m not alone, technically speaking. I know Professor Snape is watching from the window.” She points to a first floor window, where a man’s silhouette is just barely visible in the window. When Professor McGonagall looks less than impressed by this answer, Darcy sighs, marking her page and closing the book. “Then by all means . . . stay, Professor. I have no intention of going back inside.”

“Professor Snape will need you for class soon.”

“We have a free period after lunch.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Not as many N.E.W.T. classes this year.”

Professor McGonagall purses her lips, looking back towards the castle’s front doors. “If I tell you that there is a bottle of brandy back in my office that I’d be willing to open, will you at least walk me back?”

Darcy rubs her face, not really wanting to move from her place upon the tree, but the idea of drinking entices her. “Yeah, all right. Can we go to my room instead?”

“Why do we need to go to your room?”

“Because I can smoke there.”

Scrunching her nose, Professor McGonagall seems to realize that this is the best she’s going to get. “Oh, very well.”

She pushes herself to her feet and sees that McGonagall is not impressed, but doesn’t say anymore on the matter. Darcy leads Professor McGonagall back to the castle, up the marble staircase and through the empty corridors, answering the portrait’s question (“For what did you receive your first detention?”), and enters. Darcy makes for her liquor cabinet, produces a bottle of wine and pours two glasses, sits down on the sofa beside McGonagall, and immediately lights a cigarette.

“Potter—! _Really_!” Professor McGonagall scoffs, flashing Darcy an indignant look.

“Am I not allowed to smoke in my own room?” Darcy asks, taking a long pull, feeling very much as if she’d rather have Professor McGonagall leave. She opens her book again, reading the same sentence over and over.

“I thought . . . Potter . . . a crude jest!” McGonagall stammers angrily, waving her wand and Vanishing the cigarette right from between Darcy’s lips. “You should not be smoking anywhere in the castle or on the grounds!”

“Professor Grubbly-Plank did,” Darcy retorts coldly, focusing more intently upon her book. “She smoked that pipe constantly. What difference does it make?”

It seems to cost Professor McGonagall great effort to keep calm. She takes a sip of wine from the glass Darcy has given her. “What are you reading?”

“‘Men are so quick to blame the gods: they say that we devise their misery. But they themselves—in their depravity—design grief greater than the griefs that fate assigns.’” Darcy quickly underlines the small passage with her pen. “Do you agree with that?”

“I suppose.” Professor McGonagall shifts. It’s an odd sight seeing McGonagall so uncomfortable in Darcy’s presence. “You remind me of him sometimes. Remus.”

“A love for books isn’t such an uncommon trait,” Darcy says fairly.

“It’s not just your interest in . . . Muggle literature. If I might be so bold, Potter . . . the similarities between you surely drew you to him at first?” When Darcy doesn’t answer, flipping a page rather loudly, McGonagall continues. “A quiet desire for affection, the burden of grief weighing you down.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable, Professor?” Darcy asks flatly, not bothering to spare her old teacher a glance. “Remus and I?”

“I cannot pretend the idea discomfited me at first . . . I cannot pretend I did not find the idea of Remus chasing after his best friend’s daughter slightly odd . . . but perhaps I have been quick to judge.” She drinks. “Dumbledore does not seem concerned in the slightest about the closeness between you.”

“Would you not have believed it said by me? Or by Remus?”

“We all know both you and Remus have a very . . . rose-tinted view of the world at times—forgetting, or ignoring, the consequences of actions borne out of love.”

“Meaning?”

“Don’t play coy, Potter. We all know what happened while you were still his student.”

Darcy sighs again, marking her page once more and holding her book in her lap. “If this is the conversation we’re going to have Professor, may I at least smoke in my own room?”

“No,” Professor McGonagall replies, her voice curt and brisk again. “Potter, I will not lie to you. The Headmaster has asked me to check in on you. He thinks it may be a good idea for you to experience . . . a woman’s presence, considering you spend most of your time with Professor Snape or at your godfather’s home.”

“A woman’s presence,” Darcy repeats with a soft, bitter chuckle. “I have more on my mind than just boys, believe it or not, and I don’t really feel like discussing them with anyone—woman or man. You wouldn’t understand.” She opens her book again, not really reading the words at all.

“Then tell me, Potter. Tell someone—”

“I told you, I don’t want to talk about it,” Darcy snaps, looking Professor McGonagall full in the face, her heart racing. “Would it surprise you that maybe I just want to be left alone sometimes?”

“Potter, I appreciate the situation you are in, and I appreciate that things are not easy for you, but that gives you no right to speak to me that way.” Professor McGonagall takes another sip of wine. “Would it surprise you to know that I fell in love once?”

“No,” Darcy mutters, taking much more than just a sip of wine.

“Put the book down and look at me when I’m talking to you, Potter,” Professor McGonagall continues. With a heavy sigh and rolling her eyes, Darcy closes her book and throws it onto the table, raising her eyebrows. “I was eighteen, just out of Hogwarts, offered a position within the Ministry I was actively seeking . . . Dougal was his name. A Muggle, just like that Gavin boy.”

Darcy wants to shout, to tell McGonagall not to call Gavin _that Gavin boy_. She wants to shout that it isn’t just Lupin that’s bothering her, just like Harry thinks and Ron and Hermione and Snape and Sirius and Gemma and Emily and everyone she’s refused to confide in about her recent discovery about herself. Usually, with things so private, Darcy would tell Lupin almost right away, but she doesn’t think she could bring herself to confess to him— _oh, by the way, I don’t think I can have children_. It’s just another imperfection, another way that Tonks is ultimately better than her, another thing that would only be a burden on anyone who would ever want to marry her.

“Potter!”

Darcy blinks in surprise.

“It’s almost like having you in class again . . .” McGonagall sighs exasperatedly, rubbing her temples. “Are you done letting your inner monologue have a go?”

“Yes.”

Professor McGonagall doesn’t seem quite convinced, but continues as if there’d been no interruption or disturbance. “You know what it’s like to be eighteen and in love, don’t you?” she asks, and Darcy gives a slight nod. “He asked me to marry him, you know . . . I accepted, of course, fool that I was . . . I sometimes wonder if it would have been kinder never to . . .” Looking uncharacteristically misty eyed, Professor McGonagall clears her throat. “I was given a choice. Marry Dougal, the love of my life, and pretend that magic didn’t exist, hide away what I truly was . . . or refuse to marry him in order to work a job I had worked my entire life for.”

“It’s not the same,” Darcy cuts in, her mouth very dry. She drinks more wine. “You have no idea the choice that I was presented—”

“Marry Remus and live out the rest of your life comfortably, or refuse in order to protect your brother at Hogwarts? Is that or is that not the choice you were presented?”

Darcy blushes, scowling. “You don’t understand—it was more than that—”

“It was choosing someone who had only come into your life a few years ago or choosing someone you had cared for and loved and looked after for nearly your whole life, was it not?”

“It wasn’t as simple as the way you’re putting it—” Darcy stifles a frustrated groan. “Stop pushing me for answers! I told you I don’t want to talk about it!”

“The Headmaster won’t, and Severus is content to perform Legilimency on you—which I heartily disapprove with, but . . . a conversation for another time—”

“Fine,” Darcy snaps, draining her glass of wine and reaching for a cigarette. As soon as she puts it to her lips, Professor McGonagall Vanishes it again. This time, Darcy shrieks, unable to control herself. “Stop _doing_ that!” She jumps to her feet, retrieving the bottle of wine to pour herself another glass. “Look at me, Professor—do I seem the type of girl to have been shown very much love in my life?”

“No, which is why I’m very glad Remus—”

Darcy scoffs, and Professor McGonagall stops talking immediately, pursing her lips. “Come on, Professor. I’ll never be good enough for him.” Her voice is softer now, but she will not cry, not here, not now. “I’m just a kid . . . and he’s . . . look who I am, the trauma associated . . . I mean, I know what he wants from me, I think, even if he masks it with sweet words and kisses, but I know he’ll tire of me eventually . . . but Harry will always need me, just like he always has. Harry will always love me, always want me . . . years of my life dedicated to protecting him at home and here, suffering so he wouldn’t have to . . .”

“Remus loves you and Harry very much,” Professor McGonagall says gently. “I hope you know this.”

“I don’t know who I am, Professor.” Darcy stares blankly into the empty fireplace. “I don’t know who I am or where I belong. When I’m here, I want to be at home. When I am at home, I want to be here. When I’m with Remus, I feel I’m the woman Aunt Petunia would want me to be—reciting poetry and drinking wine by a fire and wearing pretty dresses; I want him to love me, I want him to be impressed. When I’m with Harry, I am a mother first, and then a sister. When I’m with Sirius, I’m a little girl again. When I’m with Professor Snape, I—”

Professor McGonagall waits for her to continue without speaking.

“I feel I’m the closest thing to me I’ll ever be when I’m with Professor Snape. I feel normal.” Darcy picks up her soft pack of cigarettes from the tabletop, crumpled and nearly empty. She holds it in her lap, not wanting Professor McGonagall to get rid of another one. “Can you leave, Professor?”

McGonagall looks slightly taken aback by Darcy’s blunt request. “Potter, I’m only trying to help.”

“I don’t need your help,” Darcy says, suddenly very angry again. She gets to her feet, clenching her jaw. “Please leave.”

Professor McGonagall abides Darcy’s request after all without much complaint or protest, leaving her half-finished glass of wine on the table. Once Darcy is alone again, she lights another cigarette, finishing both glasses of wine and refilling her own.

She doesn’t go back to class—not that she entirely forgets to go, but the prospect of going back to class with wine on her breath and something very off about her isn’t very appealing. And after all, she’s never missed a day yet, and Snape will cut her some slack . . . won’t he? Darcy shrugs it off, pouring herself more wine. All she can think of is Lupin—Lupin, who used to be her future, her dream, the reminder that Darcy could still have everything she ever wanted. All she can think of is Lupin in compromising positions now—his head between her legs, pinning her to the bookshelves in the drawing room, fingers in her hips as he pounds into from behind. But these thoughts are nothing but the thoughts of a dewy-eyed schoolgirl, thoughts Darcy would have relished in seventh year while lying awake and aching for him.

She checks her watch. There’s still time . . . and as she lights another cigarette and pours another glass, Darcy has forgotten her filthy thoughts of Lupin, replacing them with memories of his touch and love. A hand upon her cheek to wipe her tears, fingers grazing her back to make sure she hasn’t left him, soft and scratchy kisses on the dimples of her lower back, a rough and hardened thumb brushing over her lips. Darcy pictures briefly the image of Lupin smiling so sweetly, his fingers tracing the swell of her stomach, kissing the stretched skin, and that’s the image that sets her over the edge. An unattainable image, a dream that was always just going to be a dream.

Darcy continues to drink and drink until she’s unable to read her book, until she’s half-hanging off the sofa, until hours seem to have passed and she wants so badly to crawl into her bed and go to sleep but the room is spinning, spinning, spinning . . . she looks quickly at the table in front of her. When had she opened the firewhisky? When had she opened a second bottle of wine? How long until the churning of her stomach will stop? And why can’t her mind just go blank? Why must she be forced to think of Lupin? Lips touching flesh, the gentlest kisses she has ever known, intimacy she had never realized could exist, intimacy she had never realized she would one day experience.

Darcy closes her eyes. The room is growing colder, and there aren’t any windows around to gauge the time. She holds her watch up to her face, squinting and attempting to read the stupid numbers. Has she really been sitting here for so long, taking drink after drink and unable to move like some drunk? Dinner must surely be over by now, but Darcy can’t remember hearing a commotion outside her door, the stampede of students heading to the Great Hall from classes.

Her stomach gives a particularly violent roll and she groans loudly, sinking back onto the sofa, her long legs hanging off and contorted. Darcy thinks back to Lupin again, wanting to think good thoughts, anything to keep her from vomiting. She pictures his hands—warm and strong on her skin, his long fingers curling inside of her—and a soft sigh escapes her lips. She can almost feel him touching her now, hands sliding underneath her, the warmth of his chest as she nuzzles into it—

“ _Hey_! Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey! Put me _down_!”

Snape carries her bridal style as if she doesn’t weigh more than ten pounds, his jaw set, looking angry—never a good sign. As Darcy growls insults at him, squirming in his hold, Snape walks them into the back room and right into the bathroom, where he dumps her unceremoniously into the tub.

“What are you—” Darcy screams as cold water hits her face, soaking the front of her dress and her dark red hair, making her thrash about in the bathtub. The water is drowning her, sobering her up. “Get out! Get _out_! I hate you, I _hate_ you!”

He turns the water off almost instantly. Darcy pushes her sopping wet hair out of her face, panting as if she’s just run a marathon. Snape’s face is inches from hers, and she stares right back into his face, shivering violently with her arms around her. “Are you done?” he hisses, fisting the front of her dress and pulling her closer, nose to nose with him.

But Darcy’s only currently concerned with one thing. “I’m going to be sick,” she croaks, and Snape releases her, moving back just in time as she vomits over the side of the tub at the place where he’d just been kneeling.

Darcy heaves for a moment, surprised that Snape returns to her side—not to growl insults or mock her for the state she’s in, but to press a damp towel to her mouth gently to clear the vomit off her lips. “I have done everything I can to keep you here at Hogwarts,” he begins, Vanishing the pile of sick just as Professor McGonagall had Vanished her cigarettes. Snape wipes at her chin. “Tell me why I should continue making excuses for you if you’re just going to be an ungrateful little brat by missing classes to be a drunk.”

“I’m not a drunk,” Darcy rasps, grabbing drunkenly at Snape’s wrist to stop him from wiping her face. She looks up into his face again. “It’s me, you know.”

“What?”

Darcy hesitates, speaking softly. “It’s _me_. I can’t have children.”

Snape’s black eyes rove her face for a moment, as if unsure whether or not to take her at her word. “You’re . . . sure?”

She doesn’t want to admit that she isn’t one hundred percent sure, not wanting to hear Snape place the blame on Lupin. “All I wanted was a family,” she breathes, hanging over the side of the bathtub. “And I can’t even do that right. I just want him to think I’m perfect.”

Snape doesn’t answer, for which Darcy is grateful. He lifts a hand to her face, brushing the wet hair off her cheek and out of her eyes. His fingertips slide across her wet face with surprising ease, his own skin smooth from a lack of laborious work, a lack of hard work at all. She doesn’t stop him, instead letting his thumb brush over her cheekbone so lightly that she isn’t sure he’s done it at all.

Darcy continues, her words slurring together slightly. “I’m sorry I missed class today, Professor Snape.”

“There’s always tomorrow,” Snape answers, lowering his hand from her face. “Besides . . . you’ve never missed a class before.”

“Do you forgive me, then?”

“Yes,” he says, smiling weakly, sitting up against the wall by the tub. “I forgive you.” Snape digs around in the pocket of his robes for a moment, pulling out his wand and pointing it at Darcy. Wordlessly, warmth spreads from her head to her toes as he siphons the water off her clothes, dries her hair, clears the water from her face.

Darcy smiles at him in thanks, resting her arms atop the side of the bathtub to prop up her chin. She watches him for a while, his eyes darting around the bathroom, examining his fingernails and rubbing at the scuff marks on the toe of his black shoe. “You always come back for me,” she says, and he meets her eyes for a moment. “The Shrieking Shack . . . the lake . . . tonight.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Snape looks slightly sheepish, giving his head a shake in order to reveal more of his face from behind the curtains of black hair. “Someone has to look after you.”

She smiles weakly at him again. “What will you do without me, Professor Snape?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I’m gone.” When Snape gives her an incredulous look, clearly meant to shut her up, Darcy continues. “Let’s not pretend I won’t be getting the sack soon. What will you do without me? Yell at the first years? Bring me work to do that you’re too busy to do yourself?”

“I’m sure I could scrape together some essays or some more tedious assignments for you to grade,” Snape tells her, bringing his knees up closer to his chest, resting his arms on them. “Don’t think you’ll get off easy just because you’ve been kicked out.”

Darcy laughs softly, rubbing her cheek on her arm and sighing. “I think I’d quite like that, actually. You’d do that for me?”

Snape considers her, nodding slowly, the corners of his mouth turning upwards for a brief moment. “If that is what you want.”

“Do you want to hear a poem?” she asks suddenly.

“Can you recite poetry while you’re incredibly drunk?” Snape replies, looking surprised, his eyebrows raised.

“I can many things while drunk. Though, I’m not sure if I’m much good at said things.” Darcy inhales deeply. “I swear these poems are ingrained in my memory forever. Do you want to know an awful secret, Professor?”

“Do you always talk so much when you drink?”

“I could just not talk at all, if that’s what you like.” Darcy shrugs.

Snape smiles at her, more of a grimace. “Go on. What’s this secret of yours?”

Darcy adjusts herself on the side of the bathtub. “When I was a little girl, Aunt Petunia thought I was a little lady. She used to make me dress up during her little tea parties and recite poetry to her guests, hoping I’d impress them.” She pauses, looking into Snape’s eyes. “Does that surprise you?”

“No,” he answers. “There’s always been a certain. . . grace about you that your brother has always sorely lacked.”

She laughs again. “Is that you saying I’m ladylike?” Darcy pauses at the sight of Snape’s face flooding with color. “You’re right, though. Harry was never trained in such courtesies. Does it show?”

This time, Snape seems to be fighting some internal conflict, unsure of whether or not to smile. “Maybe a little. I’ve always admired that about you.”

“Have you? Or did you only started admiring it about me when I stopped talking back to you?”

Snape doesn’t answer, and Darcy doesn’t press him.

“Anyway, the last two lines of this one poem are some of my favorite.” Her voice is raspy and hoarse, sore from vomiting still. “‘I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.’”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Is that it?”

“Were you expecting more?”

“No . . . I don’t know what I expected.” He lifts his wrist to check the time. “Are you hungry? You’ve missed dinner, but I can stop by the kitchens on my way back.”

“That would be much appreciated.”

“All right.” Snape looks at her curiously for a moment, hesitating before getting to his feet. “Are you going to be okay?”

Darcy forces herself to smile as Snape pushes himself to his knees. “I’ll be fine.”

There isn’t a flicker of doubt in his face. “Yes,” he says, more to himself than to Darcy. “You always are.” And then, he moves close to her again, his hand hovering awkwardly by her face, as if wanting to touch her, but thinking better of it. Snape finally decides to go through with it, his palm coming to rest on the side of her face. Darcy’s eyes flutter closed and she tilts her head forward, feeling his lips press gently against her hair. As he stands and walks quickly towards the bedroom, Snape stops at the threshold and turns back to her. “If you tell anyone that happened, I will deny it.”

“Tell anyone what happened?” Darcy asks innocently.

Snape clears his throat importantly, smiles weakly, and takes his leave. 


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have been so good to me giving me feedback. I love y’all 💓 thanks 💓

Darcy’s in the middle of hearing an invigorating story told by two second year Hufflepuff girls regarding Pansy Parkinson calling someone a Mudblood when she hears it from a few floors down. Stuck outside her portrait hole and wanting nothing more than to lay down in bed after such a large dinner, Darcy hears a shrill scream pierce the air and echo for a moment, stopping the two girls from speaking almost at once. The three of them look at each other, and Darcy excuses herself, telling the girls to wait for her there, and bolting for the stairs, long legs taking her quickly down them three or four steps at a time in her haste. She can hear the pounding footsteps of the young girls in the distance behind her, following the source of the noise.

Students are crowded around the entrance hall, flooding out of the Great Hall from dinner, and Darcy has to squeeze through the many students on the marble staircase. Over the heads of a few third year students, Darcy catches sight of a harassed looking Professor Trelawney in the middle of the ring of onlookers, screaming at something Darcy can’t quite see. Two trunks have been thrown unceremoniously at her feet, one of them spilling out the contents, a few shawls and empty bottles of sherry. Behind the thick-rimmed, magnifying glasses perched precariously on the bridge of her nose, Trelawney’s eyes are shining with tears in the firelight from the many torches on the walls.

“Back to your common rooms—go on, get back,” Darcy says to a few students, pushing past them, but none hear her or listen to her—they’re all too busy watching something else, and as Darcy pushes past Ginny Weasley, she sees the other person with Trelawney.

Umbridge is standing across from Professor Trelawney, looking far too smug for her own good. The wide smile is on her face, stretching it nearly past it’s breaking point, and there’s a glint in her eyes that Darcy is less than fond of. Darcy steps to the front of the crowd, the students parting for her, but before she can move any closer to Professor Trelawney, someone comes running at her—a black blur between shuffling students—and nearly bowls her over.

“Darcy—”

Snape’s hands clamp around her upper arms, and the two of them stumble into a few students, earning them wary glares. “Where’s Harry?” Darcy asks in his ear, looking around for a sign of her brother. “Wasn’t he supposed to be with you?”

“I came from lessons,” Snape answers, shooing away a few students as Professor Trelawney gives a great sob and flings herself down onto her trunk. “I heard screaming.”

“We have to help her,” Darcy whispers, moving forward towards Trelawney, but Snape holds her still in place. “Professor—”

“You will do _nothing_ unless you wish to follow Trelawney out through the doors of Hogwarts,” he hisses, tightening his grip on Darcy’s arms to keep her still. His words seem to have a great effect on her, however, and Darcy hesitates, allowing Snape to pull her to his chest.

“You didn’t realize this was coming?” comes Umbridge’s voice, and an unnatural hush follows, her voice echoing in the Great Hall. “Surely you’ve realized that your pitiful performance during my inspections would make it inevitable you would be sacked?”

Professor Trelawney sobs again. “You can’t! I’ve been here sixteen years!” Her cheeks shine with tears. “Hogwarts is my home!”

“It _was_ your home,” Umbridge smiles, seemingly having no sympathy for the woman sobbing atop her things in front of her. Darcy’s heart aches suddenly for a teacher she’s never quite liked or favored, and the heat rises to her face, burning in embarrassment for Trelawney. “Until an hour ago, when the Minister countersigned the order for your dismissal. Now kindly remove yourself from this hall. You are embarrassing us.”

But Umbridge looks pleased by the display of tears, not bothering to dismiss the students now crying along with Trelawney or else looking horrified on her behalf. It’s possibly one of the sorriest scenes Darcy has ever witnessed, and hatred such as she has never known—though she has come very close—surges through her. She thought it impossible to hate Umbridge any more, but Darcy wants nothing more than to hex or curse her now, and she might—if Snape weren’t still holding her. Her eyes flick from Trelawney’s pathetic state on the ground to Umbridge looking dignified just in front of the open trunk.

Someone moves behind Darcy, pushing her closer to Snape, and at the sight of Professor McGonagall rushing to Trelawney’s aid, Darcy feels a rush of regret for the way she’d spoken to McGonagall before. She feels very much that, were it Darcy crying on the floor at Umbridge’s mercy, Professor McGonagall would not hesitate to comfort her, to defend her, as she has done multiple times previously. But to see McGonagall wrap an arm around Professor Trelawney makes Darcy realize just how severe the situation is. The everpresent animosity or lack of respect between McGonagall and Trelawney is suddenly gone as McGonagall pulls out a handkerchief.

“It’s all right, Sybill . . . you’re not going to have to leave Hogwarts . . .”

Umbridge bristles at this. “Oh, really, Professor McGonagall?” Her eyes are narrowed dangerously now, but Darcy is glad McGonagall does not falter. “And your authority for that statement is . . . ?”

“That would be mine.”

The castle’s front doors open suddenly, and a wave of students part instinctively for Dumbledore, surveying the scene curiously before taking a few steps forward towards the three Professors in the midst of the circle. Darcy exhales loudly, having forgotten to breathe for a moment, having forgotten that Snape’s hands are still holding her arms. Breathing very shakily, Darcy looks into Professor Snape’s face. They exchange an uneasy look before turning back to Dumbledore, a pleasant and polite smile on his deeply lined face.

“Yours, Professor Dumbledore?” Umbridge laughs, but it’s not her usual simper—this girlish laugh is malicious and laced with a threat that Darcy is sure Dumbledore doesn’t miss. “Under the terms of Educational Decree Number Twenty-Three, the High Inquisitor has the power to inspect, place upon probation, and sack any teacher she feels is not performing to Ministry standards.”

Umbridge straightens up and seems to think these words will make Dumbledore shrink back into the darkening grounds where he had come from, but she’s quite wrong. The smile on Dumbledore’s face does not even falter once. “You are quite right, Professor. As High Inquisitor, you have every right to dismiss my teachers. You do not, however, have the authority to send them away from the castle.” He gives a polite bow, and Darcy—for a split second—thinks this is a grave mistake, as Umbridge is sure to curse him now while he isn’t looking, but thankfully she does nothing of the sort. “That power still resides with the Headmaster.” He looks pointedly at Professor McGonagall. “Might I ask you to escort Sibyll upstairs?”

Professor McGonagall takes a moment to help the still sobbing Trelawney to her feet, and she is not the only one prepared to help. Professor Sprout rushes forward suddenly, breaking through the students, and Professor Flitwick joins them. Snape makes no move to help, but his fingertips dig harder into Darcy’s upper arms, harder and harder until she steps on his foot and hisses, “ _Ouch_!” right into his ear. Starting slightly, Snape looks down at her, as if he’s forgotten she’s there, and releases her, his hands falling to his sides.

“And what will you do when I appoint a new Divination teacher who needs her lodgings?” Umbridge asks in a very strained voice.

“As it happens, I have already found us a new Divination teacher, one who will prefer lodgings on the ground floor.” Dumbledore is still smiling, looking as though he’s been waiting for this moment since he’d stepped foot inside the castle. “May I introduce you?”

Umbridge splutters and struggles for speech as the oak front doors open wider again, allowing the night breeze to permeate the stifling air of the entrance hall, sending a chill over the gathered students and the remaining teachers. With the mist settling in the threshold, it makes for a very eerie and ominous scene, but the face that makes its way through the mist stuns Darcy into silence, and after she gets over the initial shock, she almost laughs aloud.

The sounds of hooves clacking against the flagged stone floor sends the students into frantic muttering, and Snape blinks in surprise. His face seems sharply cut and lacking a beard, giving way to a strong and pointed chin. His long blond hair sways slightly in the breeze, his bare chest swelling proudly, but that’s where the man ends. Instead of legs—human legs, anyway—everything below his torso is horse, down to the strong legs he stands upon and the tail that swings lazily behind him. For a brief second, as he looks about the entrance hall, his bright blue eyes find Darcy’s, but if he recognizes her from all those years ago, he shows no indication of it besides a moment’s hesitation.

“A centaur—!” Snape whispers softly, looking at Darcy as if unable to believe his eyes.

“Not just a centaur,” Darcy whispers back, smiling very slightly. “It’s Firenze.”

* * *

Darcy remembers almost vividly her experience in the Forbidden Forest during her fifth year for a number of reasons—that was the first time she’d ever been in the forest before, that was the first time she’d ever seen Voldemort, and that was the first time (and likely the last) that she had ridden upon a centaur’s muscled and highly uncomfortable back.

It had been a very awkward excursion, especially with everyone (including Draco Malfoy) scrabbling at her hands or nearly glued to her side, seeking comfort. Neville, especially, had been shaking with fear, and Darcy had allowed him to hold her hand within the foreboding darkness until his palm became unbearably sweaty and his grip was so tight that her entire hand had gone numb. Darcy had been shuffled from person to person at Hagrid’s request, wanting there to be as little noise as possible, and as Darcy had brought her friends and Malfoy great comfort, it was better to have the more fearful with her. Even with just Harry and Malfoy, Malfoy had walked uncharacteristically close to her, whining about supposed werewolves living in the forest, complaining about Hagrid, or trying to scare Harry (which was pretty rich coming from Malfoy in the first place, since he’d been most vocal about having Darcy with him).

Once Firenze had rescued them from what, at that time, was Lord Voldemort himself, he’d allowed Harry and Darcy to climb upon his back, speaking in cryptic riddles (or so they seemed to Darcy), and warning her very grimly that a woman should not be wandering the Forbidden Forest without heavy protection if she must enter. He had even squeezed her hand before departing, looking at her in a very sad sort of way, but he hadn’t offered an explanation for his bizarre behavior. It had made her uneasy, but upon telling Hagrid, he had assuaged her feelings of fear by going on a massive, long-winded speech about how Firenze would never hurt her, nor any other student from Hogwarts.

The day after Dumbledore breaks the news that Firenze is going to be replacing Professor Trelawney, Darcy runs into him accidentally on the first floor after taking a lap of the school to get the blood moving in her legs. To her great surprise, Firenze clasps her hand between his two (which are much bigger than she remembers, and stronger, as well). As he squeezes her hand, Darcy eyes the bruise on his chest that she hadn’t noticed last night, in the shape of a hoof.

“Darcy Potter,” he says in such soothing and calm tones, that Darcy half wishes he could lull her to sleep every night with that voice. “You have grown since the last time we met.” Firenze gives her an appraising look and his tail twitches.

“I didn’t think you’d remember,” she confesses sheepishly. “It’s good to see you again.”

Firenze releases her hand and she draws it away rather quickly. He doesn’t seem to notice, or he isn’t bothered by it. “Not remember one of the two people who have ridden on my back?” While it seems a joke to Darcy, Firenze doesn’t smile. “It was foretold we would meet again, and I had heard rumors that Dumbledore had brought you on as an apprentice for Professor Snape. I am happy to see that it is true.”

“Yes,” is all she can think to say. After a moment, where Firenze raises his eyebrows expectantly, Darcy clears her throat. “What happened to your chest? Are you all right?”

Firenze looks down, as if unsure of what she’s talking about. Then, he looks back into her face. His eyes remind her of Dumbledore’s, but there’s a certain depth to them that the Headmaster lacks, as if she gets too close to them, she’ll fall right into them. “My herd was not amused when I accepted Dumbledore’s offer to teach his students the knowledge that has, for so long, been kept among the centaurs. They have banished me.”

Darcy thinks this news should surprise her more, but she remembers the other centaurs briefly, how angry they’d been about Firenze letting she and Harry riding on his back. Her lack of surprise, however, does not mean she is not sympathetic. “I’m sorry,” she tells him breathlessly. “I have to be honest, I’m quite relieved that Dumbledore’s asked you here. I don’t know that I could have handled another awful teacher here.”

Firenze still doesn’t smile, but his tone is warm enough. “I’m glad for your warm welcome. I will not keep you any longer.” He grasps her hands again for a moment before turning to return to his classroom. “We will speak again, Darcy Potter.”

The entire meeting leaves her confused, but Firenze is a welcome sight regardless, so she doesn’t dwell on it.

But just like that, Darcy becomes an instant celebrity around Hogwarts again, followed and interrogated by mostly girls who blush at the mention of Firenze. Hermione always harrumphs when she catches wind of these conversations, which makes Darcy laugh softly to herself each time. While making her way back up the marble staircase after dinner one night, Darcy is joined by a Ravenclaw sixth year and a Slytherin fourth year, both of whom swoon when they bring up Firenze.

“He’s _so_ handsome,” the Slytherin girl, Abigail, says. “I’m so glad I took Divination now . . . Jo’s been telling me for years now that Professor Trelawney’s a fraud, and it’s pretty clear now . . .”

“What do you think, Darcy?” Jo asks with wide, blue eyes, looking eager and excited. “A werewolf . . . a _centaur_ . . .”

Darcy opens her mouth to reply, but finds it hard to come up with an answer to something so absolutely ridiculous and stupid. “How are you even connecting those two things?” she asks incredulously. “A werewolf and a centaur have absolutely nothing in common.”

“They’re exotic,” Abigail says again, and for a moment—in her Slytherin garb, dark hair falling in waves just past her shoulders—Darcy is so reminded of Gemma that she falters.

“Well, Remus still has two legs,” Darcy counters, torn between anger and exasperation. “Man legs, _human_ legs, and feet instead of hooves. Surely you’ve realized Firenze is . . . a horse?”

“He’s a centaur,” Jo explains, with the air of explaining something to a toddler. “And Abigail heard it from Draco Malfoy that you _rode_ him.”

“His back,” Darcy corrects, blushing furiously as she turns a corner. “I rode his _back_ —no, hold on, you know what? Why are we even talking about this?”

“It’s exciting to gossip with a teacher, isn’t it?” Abigail giggles, hiding her teeth behind her hands. “I mean . . . McGonagall would never . . .”

“What’s it like, Darcy?” Jo continues with a sigh, as if Darcy hadn’t spoken at all. “Being with a werewolf?”

“Hairy,” Darcy murmurs, finally reaching her portrait hole. The girls chuckle, lingering at the portrait. Darcy looks into the portrait woman’s eyes for a moment, knowing the question will not be asked until the girls take their leave. “Can I help you with something? Or are we done discussing things very inappropriate and highly uncalled for?”

With a dramatic sigh, Abigail shrugs. “Yes . . . I suppose we’ll leave you now . . .”

“See you in class,” Jo says, a dejected look on her face.

Darcy rolls her eyes, but when she closes the door behind her, privately feels very pleased, glad that people are starting to feel so positively receptive and comfortable about her.

* * *

“. . . ‘I urge Darcy Potter to come forward and make good on the promises she has delivered, if she is a true ally to the werewolves. Myself and some possible donors would be willing to meet to even collaborate on new legislation, which I myself will defend to the Ministry should she come. Words—however powerful they may be—are only that: words. I invite Miss Potter to send her reply with a time and date to meet by owl, and I am at her disposal.’” Darcy lowers the _Daily Prophet_ from the front of her face.

“Of course you are not going,” Snape snarls from his desk, marking up an essay, his face so close to the parchment that his nose is almost touching it. “This is exactly the kind of thing I told you about. People luring you . . .”

Darcy looks away from him, forcibly reminded of Sirius’ insult regarding Snape’s O.W.L. exam paper. “Lucius Malfoy should know I would never meet with him. I don’t want his money or his help.”

“Lucius knows this,” Snape says again. “But now, he has challenged you into the open. If you meet him, only bad things await. If you refuse . . .”

“Then the werewolves will think I’m a fraud, despite what I’ve written,” Darcy finishes, her mouth very dry, bile rising in her throat. “Do you think Remus knows?”

“I’m sure he’ll catch wind of it eventually, if he hasn’t already.” Snape stops writing and the room grows impossibly quiet. He lifts his head and looks up at her. “There is no way for you to win in this situation, and that is not by a happy coincidence—that is the way he has intended it to be.”

“I have to do something,” Darcy breathes.

“That is exactly what Lucius Malfoy expects you to do,” he snaps, placing his quill on the desktop. “He has gathered that you are reckless and believe very strongly in what you have written. But you mustn’t go.”

“Then I’ll write a rebuttal,” Darcy says quickly, pacing restlessly with the newspaper still in her hands.

“No, you won’t.” Snape scrunches his hooked nose. “This isn’t your fight, Darcy. You would do better to stay out of it and focus on your own problems here at Hogwarts.”

“I can’t focus on my own problems knowing that Remus might be in danger because of what I’ve written.” Darcy runs a hand through her hair, throwing the newspaper into the empty fireplace, giving it a poke with her wand and watching it immediately catch fire. “Just because I’m not a werewolf myself doesn’t mean I shouldn’t stand up for them.”

Snape doesn’t seem impressed by this answer. “You are naive, aren’t you?” he asks, bored. “You think that all werewolves are like Lupin, don’t you? Have you forgotten that it was he who attacked you in the first place? He would have killed you without a second thought. What do you think the others would do?”

“They can’t all be bad . . .”

“They are a byproduct of society,” Snape explains, and Darcy is surprised to hear him speak so calmly of werewolves, not to insult them so harshly as is his custom. “Lupin spent portions of his life as a leech to his friends, given chances others would not have been. He is an outlier. Most are ostracized completely, unable to find work, called monsters, and when has such a cruel environment ever yielded anything positive?”

“Me,” Darcy answers abruptly, before the thought is even formed in her head. “I am a positive result of a cruel environment. Or have you forgotten what my face looked like back in August? Anyway . . . it’s not like you care about werewolves. How would you know any of this in the first place?”

“It is how the Dark Lord does most of his recruiting,” Snape replies, surprising Darcy into silence. This admission of his is most interesting, and she listens carefully. “He knows what society has done to werewolves, appeals to that nature . . . to their private desires and wishes . . . the need to belong, the feeling of acceptance. A life where they no longer need to hide, or be ashamed of what they are. Most of them go willingly—they see themselves fighting against the enemy: the society that made them who they are. And in the end, he will leave them to fend for themselves, as the Dark Lord sees their value during war . . . but they are still creatures deemed unfit for the world he wants to create.”

“That’s disgusting,” Darcy whispers, looking at the ashes of the now burnt newspaper.

“That is who you are defending,” Snape finishes quietly. “They do not see you as their friend, or even their ally. They see you, and the society you represent, as the enemy.”

“I’m not their enemy.”

“Saying it doesn’t make it true.” Snape returns to his parchment; Darcy can hear the scratching of his quill from behind her. “Lucius is right. Words are only words. Your real fight is here. Umbridge meant that sacking as a threat.”

“Why hasn’t she done it yet?”

“Removing you from Hogwarts wouldn’t be enough,” Snape answers coolly. “She knows where you will be returning if you leave . . . or she has the general idea, I believe. She wants to find something that would put you in Azkaban upon sacking you.”

“I’m not going.”

“As if I’d let anyone throw you in that filthy place,” Snape growls. Darcy whirls around to face him. “Don’t worry. You’re not going to Azkaban.”

“You promise?” she asks.

“I promise.”

* * *

“A centaur?”

“A centaur.”

“Like . . . a _centaur_ centaur?”

“Gorgeous, too, according to half the girls in Hogwarts.”

Gemma leans forward, grinning wickedly. “ _Is_ he gorgeous?”

Darcy shrugs, flashing Gemma a knowing smile as Sirius scowls in disgust. “He’s all right . . . from the waist up, anyway.” She and Gemma chuckle as Sirius groans loudly to interrupt. “It’s Firenze. Haven’t I told you about him? Fifth year, I met him, when I served that detention in the forest with Hagrid.”

“What?” Gemma asks, helping herself to one of Darcy’s cigarettes. “I didn’t know you were on first name basis with a centaur.”

“Indulge us, sweetling,” Sirius says with a smile, elbowing Darcy playfully in the arm. “James would be rather impressed if he knew his daughter knew more creatures in the forest than he did.”

“You know that when we were in there, Harry and I saw Voldemort, right?”

Sirius nods, but Gemma looks slightly impressed, but horrified. She takes a long pull from the cigarette. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . you said that so casually, like it’s everyday people just run into You-Know-Who.”

“Yeah, well, believe it or not, I’ve seen crazier shit in the Forbidden Forest than Voldemort.” Darcy recounts to them the story about Firenze appearing at just the right time, and about how she and Harry had ridden his back to safety, by which time Gemma’s grinning again and Sirius strokes his chin with a look of amazement on his face. Feeling quite pleased with herself, but blushing slightly, Darcy gives a casual shrug. “I mean . . . I suppose it was . . . _pretty_ cool.”

“Understatement of the year,” Sirius chuckles. “Closest thing I’ve got to that is riding Buckbeak for the first time . . . you’d shown up right outside the window in the nick of time.”

The house is quiet tonight, with Lupin still absent. But Darcy doesn’t quite mind drinking around the fire with Gemma and Sirius. She sometimes feels herself craving the sight of one of Lupin’s winning smiles, or the gentle ‘accidental’ bump of their shoulders, a distracted nudge with his foot against hers. The drink is starting to get to her now, though, and she’s thoroughly distracted when Sirius begins to tell Gemma of Darcy, Hermione, and Harry’s amazing rescue mission. Despite Gemma having heard the story before, she’s a good audience, especially to Sirius, who takes on a more dramatic rendition of it all.

Darcy blushes furiously as her godfather sits beside her and praises her for all she’s done for him. It’s then, as he wraps up the story, Darcy is struck by a sudden thought she’d almost forgotten about. “Sirius, when you left . . . why didn’t you look back? I was waiting for you to turn around.”

Sirius blinks in surprise, looking puzzled by her abrupt question, but willing to give her an answer nonetheless. “I thought if I looked back, I’d . . . I don’t know . . . want to take you with me, I guess.”

His words take her breath away. “Really?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Just wondering.”

At night she craves him the most—long after Gemma has gone home and Sirius is fast asleep and the house is so empty and big and lonely, Darcy curls up in bed, cold and disappointed. She has never realized the extent to which she _needs_ Lupin, his chest beneath her cheek and his arm underneath her, the sound of his soft and deep breathing to fill the silence, the soft and sleepy kisses he gives her every so often when he stirs from his sleep. It amazes Darcy how much comfort she can find in just a single person, how much love she can find in herself for him. It makes her miss her bed at Hogwarts—the bed she’s used to sleeping in alone. At least Max would be in the room with her, and that’s something, even if he keeps her awake and makes far too much noise and often brings dead rodents into her room to set at the foot of her bed.

After a few hours’ sleep, Darcy wakes Saturday morning feeling more tired than she was before falling asleep️. Without bothering to change out of her pajamas, she wanders sleepily down to the kitchen, very much hoping Sirius has made breakfast for not just himself, as the smell of eggs and sausage makes her nearly salivate. An even better surprise meets her in the kitchen, however—Mrs. Weasley is there, cooking away, humming to herself. Sirius must still be asleep, for he’s nowhere to be found, and Mrs. Weasley doesn’t even hear Darcy slip in.

“Good morning, Mrs. Weasley,” Darcy calls out, sitting down at the table and almost immediately having a plate set in front of her. Mrs. Weasley flashes her a very warm smile before turning back to her cooking. “Thank you.”

“Thought I’d stop in to say hello . . .” Mrs. Weasley says cheerily. “I’m very glad to see you’re fully recovered from your antics at the party we threw for you.”

Darcy blushes. “It was a quick recovery, thankfully. Remus took care of me.”

Mrs. Weasley looks up at Darcy with a very serious expression on her face, eyebrows knitted together. “I hope he didn’t think to try—”

“He didn’t,” Darcy answers quickly, wanting to dispel any notion of what he may have done while she had been drunk. “He wouldn’t.”

“I know you don’t like to hear it . . .” Mrs. Weasley sighs, and Darcy stuffs her mouth full of food, knowing what’s likely going to come next. “But Darcy, I don’t like it. You know I have only your best interests at heart, and I don’t see any reason as to why a man his age should have any interest in a girl as young as you are. He should know better than to pursue his best friend’s daughter. Just because your parents married young doesn’t mean that you must, as well . . . love is a _special_ thing . . . if you go seeking it instead of letting it come to you, you’ll often end up breaking your own heart . . . Arthur and I, for instance . . .”

Darcy allows Mrs. Weasley to reminisce about she and her husband’s romance throughout their school years, glad that she’s found something other than Lupin to talk about. She continues to eat her food, accepting seconds and Mrs. Weasley continues to speak.

“And for the record,” Mrs. Weasley says, holding up a stern and accusing finger as she stirs up some sausage in a pan, “Arthur and I waited until marriage before we—”

Darcy nearly chokes on her own sausage, her face burning red with embarrassment. “Mrs. Weasley, _please_!”

“Oh, Darcy, I know we should have had this talk a long time ago.” Mrs. Weasley seems suddenly very disappointed in herself. “You have always been such a beautiful young girl and I cannot pretend I didn’t see something like this coming even when I first met—”

Mrs. Weasley’s abrupt silence throws Darcy off. She looks up and cocks an eyebrow before tensing, wanting to run far away. Not having realized there would be a guest for breakfast, Darcy hadn’t thought of putting a real shirt on—not one with thin straps that do nothing to cover or hide the violent scars on her shoulder. Sighing heavily and closing her eyes, Darcy covers her shoulder with her hand instinctively, feeling the urge to cry.

“What are those, Darcy?”

Darcy opens her eyes again as Mrs. Weasley’s short fingers begin to pry at her own, wrenching her hand away from her shoulder. Mrs. Weasley looks absolutely mad, her eyes nearly popping from their sockets, her lips pursed tighter than she’s ever seen Aunt Petunia’s, her face bloodless and pallid.

The rest of the morning does not go well. Mrs. Weasley does not take the situation as well as her husband did, and halfway into her tirade about Darcy never again being in the same room alone as Lupin, she finds out that her husband knows in the first place. This doesn’t go over well, either, and Mrs. Weasley then spends the next half hour in shock and utter disbelief that Mr. Weasley hadn’t thought to mention the scars to her. She shouts and rambles until Darcy starts to cry and she can feel bile burning her throat. She knows Mrs. Weasley is the farthest thing from Vernon, knows that Mrs. Weasley would never hit her, but Darcy still flinches whenever she comes too close, in arms reach of Darcy.

“You’re twenty-years-old, Darcy, far too young to be dealing with a burden such as this . . . you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into . . . how _dare_ he . . . how could he . . .”

When Darcy tries to explain the circumstances, she isn’t given a chance.

“If I see that man so much as looks in your direction, so help me, Darcy . . .”

When Sirius wakes and meanders down to the kitchen, Darcy half-thinks he’s going to join Mrs. Weasley in chastising her about she and Lupin’s relationship, but he doesn’t. He snaps at Mrs. Weasley to leave her alone, and once Darcy is well fed, she decides to return home, fuming. Humiliated and trembling slightly, Darcy covers her face with her hands as Sirius finishes his own breakfast. She can feel his eyes fixed upon her, but is too ashamed to meet his eyes for the moment.

“Look, Darcy . . .” Sirius finally sighs, and there’s the clatter of his cutlery being lowered into his empty plate. “Molly had no right to say those things—”

“As if they’re things you haven’t thought before,” Darcy retorts coldly, lowering her hands from her face to glower at him across the table.

“Well . . . I’m your godfather, and she isn’t,” Sirius continues in a much more firmer tone. “And if she has a problem with your . . . extracurricular activities, then she can take it up with me. And as your godfather, I’ll have you know it’s my duty to scowl at every boy who looks at you.”

“Your duty?” Darcy repeats.

“Even you know it’s what James would have wanted,” Sirius teases, a weak smile gracing his face.

Darcy wonders briefly what James would think if he knew Snape had tried to kiss her, but thinks that that particular information is best kept a secret completely from her godfather. But there’s something about Snape she wishes to speak with Sirius about, and she’s sure he’ll be able to give her a proper answer. “You saw what Lucius Malfoy published in the _Prophet_?”

“Yes,” Sirius answers bitterly. “It’s a trap, Darcy. You have to ignore it.”

“I know it’s a trap,” Darcy snaps, softening slightly at the concern etched in Sirius’ face. “Professor Snape told me something funny the other day, the day it was published . . .”

She recounts what Snape had told her about werewolves and Voldemort, and Sirius—while clearly unhappy they’re discussing Snape—listens patiently all the while, nodding at some things and looking to fully agree with Snape’s words. “Listen closely, because it’s the only time I’ll ever say it,” he begins after Darcy has finally finished. “Snape is right. What you’ve done is admirable, but you don’t understand. Just because you’ve spent time with one doesn’t mean you understand their . . . _culture_ , for lack of a better word. _I_ still don’t understand it. But Remus does, better than any of us here, so we need to trust him.”

“I do trust him—”

“Then let him do what needs to be done, and let’s not make it any harder for him than it needs to be,” Sirius interrupts, holding up a hand to silence her. “If you want to help the werewolves, then the best thing you can do right now is to trust and support Remus in this mission.”

Darcy frowns, looking away from him. “I just . . . if I make a change, Remus wouldn’t have to go back at all.”

Sirius looks sympathetic, and she’s quite glad. She isn’t sure if he’s still feeling bad about Mrs. Weasley or if he’s feeling sorry for Lupin, but Darcy is just happy he isn’t yelling or snapping at her. His tone is gentle, reassuring, but there’s a slight edge to it that reminds her that Sirius knows what he’s talking about. She wonders if this is what her father would sound like if it were she and James having this same conversation. “I know you want to do something, but there’s nothing you can do,” Sirius says softly. “This is how it has always been, and it would take more than a few articles to make the changes you want to see. It’s just not possible, Darcy.”

“But how can you be okay with the way they’re treated? How can you be okay with the knowledge that Remus will never be treated as a real man by society? How does that not anger you?”

“It does,” Sirius answers, raising his eyebrows. He smiles incredulously, as if the proposition is ridiculous. “But what am I to do about it? We’re talking hundreds of years worth of prejudice, and that doesn’t change overnight—likely not even in your lifetime.” He exhales loudly through his nose, shaking the dark hair from his face. “Werewolves are dangerous, even the most well-meaning ones—a fact you’re more than aware of. You’re jumping into something you are completely unprepared for.”

“I thought you’d be happy for me,” Darcy admits, shifting in her seat and blushing again at the sight of Sirius’ smile. “I just . . . I wanted people to be proud of me.”

“I _am_ proud of you,” Sirius grins, very much looking it. Seemingly on a whim, he reaches across the table to grab her outstretched hand, giving it a slight squeeze. “You did a very brave thing, that many people twice your age would never have thought of doing. But you don’t have to prove yourself . . . we all know how you feel, Remus knows how you feel. You don’t have to do this.”

“You’re always talking about having adventures and living life with a little risk,” Darcy protests weakly, and Sirius laughs to himself. “I’m only doing what you’re saying—”

“But I’d rather not have you ripped apart by a pack of angry and vengeful werewolves.” Sirius’ smile fades slowly. “You’ve been through enough, sweetheart. Forgive me for wanting to keep you safe.”

Darcy considers him, pulling her hand away from Sirius’. She absentmindedly fingers the scars on her shoulder, and while Sirius’ eyes are drawn to them, he doesn’t look particularly phased by it. “Professor Snape thinks it’s only a matter of time until Umbridge makes her next move against me.”

Sirius gives her a weak smile. “I know it’s the very last thing you want to hear,” he begins slowly, eyes roving her face as Darcy’s eyes snap to his face again. “But I’m really happy you’re going to be living with me.”

She forces herself to smile back, thinking only of the memory she and Snape had witnessed together. She remembers clinging to Sirius as if her life had depended on it, as if letting go of him meant certain death. She wonders what would have happened had she not let go . . . would Sirius still have been so reckless as to track Peter down? Or would he have dedicated himself to Darcy—to protect her, to love her, to raise her? If someone had told her years ago that Darcy would be living with her godfather—the godfather she’d once loved so much—she wouldn’t have believed it possible. And now, the guilt of leaving Harry behind weighs heavy on her, and the idea of not even being able to write him without Umbridge intervening makes her anxious.

Darcy can think of nothing to say, but the last thing she wants to do is disappoint Sirius. “I love you, Sirius,” she says, earning her a small smile.

“Love you, too.”

* * *

“Who is she to talk to you like that? How can she try to give you a sex talk with all those kids of hers? They probably fucked like rabbits all throughout their years at Hogwarts.”

Darcy sighs, flipping the page of her book. “That’s not nice,” she says weakly, her heart not really in it.

“Neither was what she did,” Gemma says seriously, blowing on her freshly painted nails and waving them in the air dramatically. She picks up her wand carefully, flicking it at the fire to add another log. “Here’s my thing . . . if Snape isn’t concerned about it, Mrs. Weasley shouldn’t be, either.”

Darcy opens her mouth to scoff at the absurdity of the idea, but then hesitates. “That’s actually a pretty good scale.” She considers for a split second telling Gemma about Snape trying to kiss her, but decides at the last minute against it. “I just have a bad feeling about this.”

“Why? She’s not your mother, no matter how badly she wants to be.”

“I owe her some sort of respect, don’t I? After all she and Mr. Weasley have done for me and Harry?” Darcy asks distractedly, underlining a few sentences in her book.

“She just doesn’t want you to pop out any babies, is all,” Gemma continues, and Darcy feels her mouth grow dry.

“Yeah, um . . . about that . . .”

Gemma looks up at her with wide eyes. “Are you pregnant?” she hisses, looking amazed. “Darcy Potter, do you have a baby Lupin growing in there?”

“ _No_!” Darcy replies, breathless at the very thought. “No, I’m not—there’s no—I’m not pregnant, Gemma, don’t you think I would have told you?”

“Then what’s the problem?”

But before Darcy can say anything, Sirius enters the drawing room with dinner for the three of them, and Darcy shuts her mouth tight, fixing her gaze upon her book and trying to forget about it all. And yet . . . surely Gemma would understand? Surely she’d have answers—surely she’d know whether or not it was Darcy’s fault she can’t have children, or Lupin’s condition that prevents it. She isn’t quite sure what answer she wants to hear, and knows that, even though Gemma loves her dearly, there would be no saving her dignity from such a confession. The humiliation of knowing she can’t have children would surely kill her—Darcy doesn’t think she’d ever be able to look Gemma in the eyes again.

“It’s nothing,” Darcy whispers to Gemma, as Sirius seats himself on the sofa and begins to eat loudly, as if he hasn’t eaten in years. “Just forget it.”

Gemma shrugs, and doesn’t bring it up again.

“Sirius?” Darcy asks, and he hums in response. “Have you had word from Remus?”

“No, but I’m sure he’s all right. He’ll be back before you know it.”

Gemma nods in agreement, but Darcy isn’t entirely convinced. “Okay.”

Lupin doesn’t return Saturday night, nor does he make an appearance Sunday. Despite Sirius and Gemma constant reassurances that he’s fine and he’ll be home within the next few days, the creeping paranoia that often overtakes Darcy during times of great distress forces her to think differently. She can’t help but remember the state he’d returned home in last time, deep wounds in his torso and his back, the newest scar on his face that Darcy had kissed over and over again, smiling against the scratchy beard on his face. While she hopes, of course, that Lupin will come back possibly a little sore, but otherwise okay, Darcy can’t help but feel this is unrealistic. She can imagine him limping over the threshold, bleeding from every orifice, his face bruised and bloodied, barely recognizable. It makes her shudder and want to cry.

Before Darcy leaves Sunday night and after she packs her things, she creeps into Lupin’s bedroom. It’s dark inside, relatively clean from what she can see (cleaner than Darcy’s, anyway), and his bed is made—something that’s always been slightly weird to her. Sitting down on the side of the bed, the mattress groaning beneath her weight, Darcy holds her wand up and gives it a wave; the oil lamps spring to life, giving light to the shadowy room. It feels very lonely and awfully empty, considering he had taken most of his things with him when he’d left. She doesn’t want to go through his things, but Darcy doesn’t think he’d quite mind all that much if he ever actually found out. So she opens the drawer in his nightstand, smiling when she sees the contents inside.

Scattered inside of the drawer are all the pictures of Darcy he’s decided to keep—some of them innocent ones, like the picture he’d taken of her sleeping last year, while others are rather risqué photographs of Darcy in little to nothing, always a shy smile on her face. Darcy closes the drawer and reaches into her pocket, pulling out the photograph she had originally wanted to give him—the picture Gemma had taken of Darcy and Lupin asleep on the sofa, tangled up in each other and sweating under the blanket, Darcy nearly lying right on top of him and probably making it very difficult for him to breathe. She puts it on his pillow, hoping that Kreacher won’t steal it should he come lurking while Lupin is away.

She tries to imagine having a conversation with Lupin about children. On one hand, she doesn’t want to have the conversation at all considering he refuses to commit and he’s not really hers, and all she’d end up doing in the long run is embarrassing herself by admitting she thinks about having children with him. On the other hand, Darcy is going to burst if she doesn’t tell someone, and there is just about nothing she wouldn’t tell Lupin—Snape just isn’t enough for her. She wants to talk about it, wants the comfort that will come with telling Lupin that Snape refused to offer her. Darcy knows it’ll be a messy conversation, knows that it will end in tears and she’ll likely cry herself to sleep again, just as she has so many other nights when the guilt weighs her down.

But in the back of her head, a nagging voice grows louder and louder, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Emily’s. _He won’t want you anymore knowing there’s no future with you_. But that’s not entirely true, Darcy tries to tell herself. Maybe there won’t be children, but Darcy could still love him like no one else could, would still marry him and be his wife and cook for him and kiss him and touch him—anything to prove that she’s worth it, anything to make him love her the way she loves him.

“Darcy, what are you doing? We’re going to be late!”

“Coming!” she shouts back at Snape, slinging her bag over her shoulder once more, extinguishing the lamps, and running from Lupin’s room, hoping with all of her heart that he makes it back alive to see the picture in the first place.

* * *

Darcy has to admit, she’s quite thankful that it is not up to her to teach the fifth and seventh years. The seventh years, having already gone through O.W.L. year already, don’t succumb quite as much to the pressure of exams as the fifth years do. It’s clear that Snape’s mood is becoming fouler with each and every tedious question the fifth years ask. Sometimes Darcy gives answer when a vein in Snape’s temple begins to throb much like Vernon’s, saving the student from a detention or likely a verbal lashing. Not that she quite blames Snape—the students ask the same questions over and over again, nearly leaving class in hysterics if they don’t enter class that way.

Snape does the same thing with the seventh years that he had done with her N.E.W.T. class. He reviews old material, things likely to come up in their exams, has Darcy answer some of his question and praises her in front of the students when she answers correctly. The feeling of being validated and praised makes Darcy perk up, smiling in spite of herself. What’s even better than how well the other students are doing (generally) in regards to their exams is how well prepared her first years are. To Darcy’s surprise, Umbridge stops in one Monday morning to observe the class, seemingly frustrated when she finds nothing technically wrong with Darcy’s methods, lesson plans, or review techniques. But one observed class is nothing—according to Harry, Umbridge has been observing every one of Hagrid’s classes, and it seems the strain is beginning to get to him.

As the weeks continue to drag on, Darcy feels slightly more optimistic about her chances of remaining at Hogwarts. Snape seems so sure that Umbridge is waiting for incriminating evidence that she’s doing something wrong, but Darcy has made sure there’s nothing in her room that would give her away. When April rolls around, Darcy is sure that Umbridge will just let her stay, considering it’s so close to the end of term. Though Darcy doesn’t voice this, afraid that she will end up wrong, the feeling does make her heart a little lighter.

Though Sirius takes it hard, she’s noticed—having assumed that Darcy would be living with him full time by now, Sirius has begun to retreat from her again, spending long periods of time in his bedroom or with Buckbeak when Darcy’s around and often smelling of stale drink. She wishes he wouldn’t, or that he would at least listen to her words of comfort, for with Lupin still gone and Gemma at work, Grimmauld Place may very well be one of the loneliest and creepiest places she’s ever known. Sometimes she plays the piano for hours, until her hands and fingers and wrists cramp so badly that Gemma ends up having to give her something for the ache. Other times, she reads—in bed, in the kitchen, before the fire in the drawing room—always listening hard for the sound of someone coming home, always listening for Lupin just outside the front door.

Once, she even gets so bored that she approaches the empty portrait of Phineas Nigellus and waits for him to return from the portrait of him she knows hangs in Dumbledore’s study. When at last Phineas wanders into his portrait in Grimmauld Place, he groans at the sight of her.

“As nice as you are to look at, Miss Potter, I would much prefer not to,” Phineas Nigellus says, his eyes flicking up and down her once before sighing. “What can I do for you, then? A message for Dumbledore, perhaps? A message from my dreadful great-great-grandson that he refuses to give himself?”’

Darcy scoffs, crossing her arms. “I only came to talk.”

“Ah . . . feeling lonely, are we?” Phineas raises a single thin, dark eyebrow, looking deeply bored. “Surely there is someone else in this house that would enjoy talking to you more than I would? I know of the company you keep, Miss Potter . . . a very interesting group of friends you have . . . now, unless you have anything of importance . . .” Phineas gives a loud, fake yawn. “I’ll be off.”

Darcy calls him a foul name as he retreats, and she can hear Phineas yelling in the distance: “And the Headmaster _will_ hear about how you’ve been talking to me!”

* * *

“I was thinking . . .” Harry says, flipping lazily through one of the marked up books Lupin had given Darcy months ago. “Patronuses?”

“What about them?” Darcy asks, allowing Max to nip lovingly at her fingers, sometimes just barely breaking the skin. She doesn’t flinch, having known worse pain inflicted by Max’s damned sharp beak. He hops around the bed they’re lying on, flapping his wings playfully before returning to Darcy.

“For the D.A. meeting tomorrow,” he continues, replacing the book on the nightstand and watching Max flap around. “Could make for a good lesson. What do you think?”

“Could make for a _very_ fun lesson.” Darcy takes a sip of her butterbeer and Harry mimics her. A genuine smile creeps across her face. “You’ve got some big shoes to fill, teaching them Patronuses. Think you can handle it, Professor?”

“My lessons will involve me looking your way a little less than Lupin’s did,” Harry jokes, and it’s so sweet to see a smile on his weary face that Darcy laughs softly. “Much less often, in fact. But as to my skill level . . . still up for debate at this point.”

Darcy laugh again. “You summoned a corporeal Patronus at thirteen, Harry. Remus was really proud of you, you know. You’re a great wizard.”

“I’m not as good as you,” Harry murmurs, drinking his butterbeer again.

“It’ll come with the years,” Darcy assures him. She shoos Max away when he nips her finger a little too hard. “You were right, Harry. Experience is the best teacher . . . not books, or lectures. Actually _doing_ it.”

Harry’s cheeks turn slightly red and he avoids her eyes for a moment. “Seems like you’ll be staying for the rest of the year, doesn’t it?”

“Seems that way, just don’t jinx it,” Darcy teases, pinching her brother’s arm. “All right, so Patronuses tomorrow, and then I think a celebration . . . the two of us, some butterbeer . . . reminiscing about how we learned how to produce Patronuses.” They quiet for a moment, and Darcy swallows hard. “Better and easier days.”

Harry punches Darcy’s arm lightly, but doesn’t say anything. She smiles weakly at him, some of the longing lessening at the sight of him smiling back. It’s good to sit here in the comfortable silence with Harry, sipping butterbeer and remembering better days, enjoying each other’s company. And in that long stretch of comfortable silence, there is no Dolores Umbridge, or a war looming outside the walls of Hogwarts, or Voldemort, or werewolves. There is no grieving or suffering or pain. All there is are the four walls of Darcy’s bedroom, the open window through which the chilly April air enters, the slopping of butterbeer as one of them takes a drink from the bottle. For that stretch of silence, everything is just as it’s meant to be—she and Harry, in it together, as they always have been.

_As we always will be._


	52. Chapter 52

“. . . what you need to produce a Patronus is a powerful memory . . . the happiest memory that you can think of,” Harry says, eyes looking across the eager and attentive crowd of students, hanging on every word. “Patronuses are a type of positive force—the happier the memory, the stronger the Patronus. The longer you stay focused on your memory, the longer your Patronus will protect you.” He turns to give his sister a sideways look, smiling slightly. “Each person’s Patronus is different, each a part of ourselves, but it’s unlikely that anyone will produce a corporeal Patronus today, so don’t be discouraged!

“Now, the incantation is _Expecto Patronum_ ,” Harry continues, taking a few steps away from Darcy. Everyone’s eyes snap to her. “So while everyone is thinking of their happiest memory, Darcy will demonstrate.”

Harry gestures for her to go ahead, and Darcy holds her wand up, feeling slightly nervous. But she knows that she’s capable, and she so desperately wants to see the beautiful doe leap around the room, for it has been such a long time since last she’s seen it. Darcy thinks of the night in the Shrieking Shack, of her reunion with Sirius after years of separation, and she holds her wand a bit more steady.

“ _Expecto Patronum_!”

There are ooh’s and ah’s from the students as Darcy’s Patronus spills from the tip of her wand. Silvery-white and bright enough that Darcy has to momentarily look away. The sight of it reminds her of the memories in the Pensieve—not solid and not quite liquid either, but graceful and moving like water as it forms a distinct shape in front of her, eliciting gasps from others. The doe watches Darcy obediently, its four slender legs not quite touching the ground, and making not a sound when it lifts and lowers one of her hooves. Darcy smiles at it, reaching out despite knowing there is nothing to touch; sure enough, her hand falls right through it, but it provides a sense of warmth and comfort, and before long—upon realizing there is no threat of dementors nearby—it disappears when Darcy loses focus.

The students are still watching her, wide-eyed and impressed, and even Harry looks quite pleased with himself, proud—in the moment—to be Darcy’s brother. “Professor Lupin would be proud,” he murmurs, as everyone begins talking in low whispers, guessing what animal their Patronus could be, discussing their happiest memories. Turning again to the group at large, Harry presses on. “So . . . I suppose we don’t need to partner up for this . . . just spread out, think of the happiest memory you have, and practice the incantation. And remember, the Patronus Charm is really advanced. It took me weeks to learn it, but it may be a bit easier with nothing to deter us, or cause us to lose focus.”

“How did you learn, Harry?” Seamus Finnigan asks, clearly very glad that his first D.A. meeting is regarding something so interesting.

“Professor Lupin found a boggart for me to use,” Harry explains, as everyone separates and spreads around the room, concentrating hard on their memories. “It turned into a dementor when it saw me. Darcy, maybe you could help find one for us.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Darcy chuckles.

Harry has them work on Patronuses all lesson, and Darcy’s both surprised and slightly envious upon seeing some of the students casting corporeal Patronuses after a few times of trying. Most of them, however, are only able to produce a few wisps of the silvery vapor Darcy is very familiar with. She offers them words of encouragement, describes her failed attempts to them (without mentioning what specifically her happy memory is of), and it seems to lighten many of their hearts to know Darcy had trouble, as well. It makes her almost sad to talk about it, to remember how the memory of Sirius had both disgusted and excited her, how she had hated herself for being able to cast a Patronus at the thought of him, and not Lupin, or Harry, or Emily. But it does make her happy to remember casting her Patronus in front of the examiner with Lupin watching on with such a sweet and soft expression, a smile playing on his lips at the sight of her doe Patronus.

“Are you all right, Neville?” Darcy asks abruptly, as she stops walking before a red-faced and sweating Neville. “Do you . . . er . . . what are you doing?”

Neville meets her eyes for a split second before waving his wand. “ _Expecto Patronum_!” His voice is louder than she’s ever heard it, echoing throughout the noisy Room of Requirement. Nothing happens, except a few wisps shoot feebly from the tip of his wand. Dejected, he looks away from Darcy sheepishly.

“Your memory probably isn’t happy enough,” Darcy shrugs, smiling at him, but regretting this almost at once as his entire flushes crimson. “It’s all right, Neville. When I learned, settling on a happy enough memory was the hardest part for me.”

“What do you think of?” Neville says, looking up at her, his dusty blond hair falling into his eyes. There’s still a rosy pink tint to his cheeks that’s rather endearing, but her heart leaps into her throat at his question. Neville seems to pick up on her reluctance. “You don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not . . . I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been nosy . . . I should have realized that it’s private.”

This makes Darcy feel incredibly guilty and she looks quickly around them. Everyone is far too distracted by their Patronuses to be paying them any attention. “No, it’s all right,” she says gently, touching Neville’s shoulder. “I think of . . . well, my godfather and I were reunited just a short while ago. It had been over a decade since we last had seen each other, and we . . . we loved each other very much, so seeing him again was . . .” She shrugs lamely, feeling that she could have made her story a little more interesting. “That’s my happy memory. You can do it, Neville.”

He gives a very determined nod. “I’m trying.”

“Oh, Darcy! Look!”

Darcy turns on her heels to find a beaming Hermione, her otter Patronus swimming in the air around her head. The light shines on Hermione’s face, making her look ghostly pale, but there’s an excited flush to her cheeks. Hermione urges Darcy closer, laughing at the sweet little otter as it continues to move around playfully and fluidly, without faltering or stumbling.

“It’s cute!” Darcy says as the otter circles her ankles and disappears suddenly as Hermione lowers her wand, stealing glances at Ron, and then when there’s nothing of interest there, she looks at the others.

Cho Chang has managed to produce a swan, which greatly surprises Darcy, considering—and perhaps it’s her fault for listening to an unreliable narrator such as Harry—Cho must be one of the most depressing people in the school. She doesn’t seem it now, however—a wide smile on her face as her dark eyes follow her Patronus around the area, looking at it as if she’s never seen anything so beautiful before. Seamus Finnigan succeeds for a moment before he gets so distracted by the sight of his Patronus, which immediately vanishes, but Darcy catches sight of what looks to be a fox, or a small dog.

In the end, Darcy meanders back over to Harry, who watches everyone with pride gleaming in his bright green eyes. “Excellent work, Professor Potter,” Darcy grins and flush creeps up the back of Harry’s neck. “If only I could command my own students’ attention this way . . .”

“I think you’re doing just fine,” Harry says, smirking. “ _Professor_. How many years exactly until the students are required to stop calling you by your first name?”

“Never,” Darcy laughs. “I think much prefer being called Darcy. Professor Potter doesn’t have the same ring to it. And it’s rather intimidating, don’t you think?”

“I think it quite suits you,” Harry answers, and his words echo inside Darcy’s head for a moment. “If you work a little harder, maybe Dumbledore will sack Snape and make you our permanent teacher. You’re a much better sight, anyway.”

“Anyone looks much better standing next to Professor Snape,” Darcy replies, smiling across the room at Neville, whose most recent attempt at the spell has yielded more vapor than his previous attempts. She gives Harry a sideways look, pursing her lips. “You really think it suits me?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Wish you taught my Potions class, too. You’d make sure to give me an O, wouldn’t you?”

“As long as you work for it. If I’m to be a fair teacher, I can’t go showing favoritism. Just remember, in case I do end up as your teacher in the near future—anything I say in order to dispel rumors of favoritism can’t be held against me.”

“Hope you’re not planning on being cruel? Because if that’s the case, might as well just keep Snape on board.” Harry snorts. “Though, if you know Occlumency, could you take over teaching me? Sooner, rather than later, please.”

“Sorry, little brother. You’re out of luck there.”

“It was worth a shot.”

The room seems quieter for a moment, and it draws both Harry and Darcy’s attention. She looks around, but nothing seems out of the ordinary, so she turns back to Harry to reply, but something tugs at the hem of her skirt, just above her knee. Starting, she looks down to find Dobby pulling hard on Harry’s robes, as well, nearly dancing on the spot, trying to get their attention. Not having seen Dobby for some time, Darcy had forgotten how silly he looks with all of Hermione’s hand-knitted hats balanced precariously atop his round head, being held up by his enormous ears. But Darcy can’t stop looking at his face, where there is a look of sheer terror in his large eyes, and his entire body seems to be shaking.

“Dobby,” Darcy says, startled to see him, but now panicking slightly at the mere state of him. She kneels down before him, allowing Dobby to grasp her hand, his tiny fingers wrapping around Darcy’s slender ones as a baby might. She squeezes, his shaking making her nervous. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“Darcy Potter . . . you must leave . . . you must . . . Dobby has come to warn you . . . you and your noble brother, Harry Potter . . . but we have been forbidden . . .”

“Warn us about what?” Darcy asks, and Dobby makes to pull his hands away from her, his face contorting into one of pain, and she understands. She grips his wrists tight before he can hurt himself, and Dobby twists and turns, moaning loudly, trying to escape.

“What’s happening, Dobby?” Harry asks, kneeling slowly beside his sister, looking very seriously into Donny’s face. Darcy can see Harry reflected in the house-elf’s shining, tear-filled eyes.

“She . . . she . . .” Dobby struggles for breath as if speaking is physically paining him. Without warning, he brings his face down hard upon his hands, unable to pull away from Darcy. All of the hats he’d been wearing hit her full in the face. “Darcy Potter . . . please go . . . quickly . . . she . . .” But he can’t bring himself to finish his sentence.

Slowly, painfully, Darcy and Harry look at each other, breathing very fast. “Is it Umbridge, Dobby?” Harry asks, and a chill runs down Darcy’s spine.

Dobby doesn’t have to answer for them to understand.

“Did she find out about the meetings?” Darcy asks this time, feeling very nauseous when Dobby only looks at them, horrified, still trembling violently. She looks quickly at Harry again, her mouth very dry when he asks the final question.

“Is she coming, Dobby?”

There is no mistaking the look of horror that Dobby gives them. Darcy releases him at once, looking around at the now terrified students. She begins to shepherd them as chaos erupts—everyone pushes towards the door, and Darcy leads them out, urging them to take refuge in nearby bathrooms, or go to the hospital wing or library, anywhere they can get to in time. Her words fall upon deaf hears, and the sound of their footsteps in the corridors outside are frantic and frenzied and confused, stopping several times to change direction or else disappearing completely with the shutting of a nearby door.

“Darcy!” Hermione screams, being pushed along by other students. She reaches over the heads of Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood, extending a hand for her. “Darcy, come on!”

“Go! We’ll catch up!” Darcy looks over her shoulder at Harry, who has lifted Dobby off the ground and is seemingly giving him firm instructions, nose to nose. Her brain is working furiously—if she can make it to the dungeons before Umbridge finds her, she might be safe . . . Snape will vouch for her, would lie for her if need be, wouldn’t ask any questions until he knew Darcy was in the clear. But the dungeons are so very far away, several floors below, and if Snape isn’t there when she arrives, panting and out of breath, Umbridge would certainly suspect something.

Her room is closer than both the dungeons and Gryffindor Tower, closer than the library or the hospital wing or the Owlery. The last ones over the threshold, Dobby runs in one direction, and Darcy takes Harry by the hand, pulling him in the direction of her room. “Come on,” Darcy gasps, her long legs making it difficult for Harry to keep up. Her heart is hammering inside of her chest painfully, and she hadn’t realized until just now that her forehead is shiny with sweat. Several times, her knees threaten to give out due to nerves, and her eyes dart from shadowy corner to shadowy corner, hoping against hope that Umbridge will not find her, will not catch her.

Harry cries out and his sweaty palm is ripped from hers. Darcy stops abruptly, skidding to a halt and turning around to find Harry facedown on the ground, groaning, and a triumphant looking Draco Malfoy standing behind him. Instinctively, Darcy reaches for her wand, her chest heaving with each short breath. She knows what will happen to her if Umbridge finds out that Darcy is associated with the D.A., and it’s not as if she wants to hex or jinx a student, but if it’s between that and Azkaban . . .

“Professor!” Malfoy cries gleefully, and Darcy’s heart sinks as she looks down at her brother on the floor. “Professor, I’ve got them!”

There’s fear in Harry’s eyes, his glasses slightly askew from falling so hard. Darcy forgets to breathe for a moment, watching Harry apologetically, knowing that whatever is going to come of this, it will likely be more than carved words in the back of his hand, and she can’t leave him—she can’t leave Harry to suffer that fate himself, knowing she had a role in this, as well. “ _Go_ ,” Harry hisses, but it’s too late—Malfoy has seen them both, and before Darcy can move, something hits her hard in the back and she falls to the ground, cords wrapping around her wrists, binding them together, and thicker cords gagging her. Their faces nearly inches from each other, Harry and Darcy don’t look away.

“Fifty points to Slytherin for the capture of Mr. Potter! Excellent, excellent work, Draco,” comes Umbridge’s voice, and her thick fingers grab the back of Darcy’s blouse, pulling her into a sitting position, forcing her to her feet. Umbridge shuffles around to the front of her, eyes nearly popping from their sockets, her wand held out in front of her, pointed directly at Darcy’s face. With a self-satisfied smirk and her voice very breathy and low, she murmurs, “And here I thought I’d have to give up on my dream of a Potter-free school. Months of following you, of going through your things, of trying everything to find something incriminating . . . and you and some necessary evidence have now fallen right into my lap. Stand up. We’re going to the Headmaster.”

Darcy, shivering with fear, sick to her stomach and out of breath, refuses to submit to Umbridge. She tries to think of Professor Snape, of nothing but him—his promise to her that he would not allow anyone to take her to Azkaban. _Please let him find me_ , she begs silently. _Please give him a sign that I’m in trouble_. When Umbridge tires of Darcy’s resistance, frustrated and red in the face, her palm connects with Darcy’s cheek in a fit of rage, and the sharp slap of skin on skin rings throughout the corridor, making Darcy’s eyes water. Harry protests loudly, but Umbridge silenced him with a single look, holding her hand up to Darcy’s face again to show Harry she is prepared to do it again.

“ _Get up_!” Umbridge shrieks in Darcy’s face. This time, Darcy obeys, the cords digging into her wrists and rubbing her skin raw even with the slightest struggle. Her cheek gives a sharp and painful throb.

Darcy knows there is nothing for it—she cannot scream with the cords around her mouth, and if Snape is in the dungeons, he surely will not hear her muffled cries, feeble as they are. Even if she were to stomp and carry on and make as much noise as she can, Snape is too far away to notice anything, and there is no way for her to manage a spell without Umbridge noticing, and the very last thing Darcy wants to do is to have her wand taken. But she will not allow Umbridge to cart her off to Azkaban—Darcy had been telling it true: she would rather die than spend even the smallest amount of time in Azkaban. She has seen the effect it had on her godfather, and even Hagrid when he had done his stint in prison when he’d been blamed for the Chamber of Secrets. Darcy can’t imagine a worse fate than being alone in such close quarters with dementors, forced to relive her worst memories, and if it’s true the dementors are no longer under Ministry control, Darcy doesn’t think she would be there for long before the dementors kiss her.

Umbridge escorts both Darcy and Harry to Dumbledore’s office. Darcy twists her wrists gently, finally conceding when she realizes that escape is futile. Her heart is thumping faster than ever as they reach the spiral staircase that will take them up to Dumbledore’s study, and her pulse pounds deafeningly in her ears. Darcy hopes very much that Dumbledore has a plan to get her out of here, to bring her back to Grimmauld Place without anyone being any the wiser. _Let him read my mind_ , she begs, as Umbridge pushes the door of the study open. _Let him kill me if they insist on taking me to Azkaban. Let him kill me._

Darcy receives a shock upon entering. Dumbledore is not alone—Professor McGonagall lays eyes upon the state Darcy is in and, at once, her nostrils flare and her eyes darken; Cornelius Fudge looks amazed and rather pleased as Umbridge pushes both Darcy and Harry over the threshold; Percy Weasley is there, much to Darcy’s chagrin, preparing a piece of parchment to take notes, dutifully avoiding Darcy’s eyes. Darcy looks over her shoulder to find two men standing guard by the exit—one of them a man just a few inches taller than she, with a rather dull and blank look to him, as if having taken too many Stunning spells to the chest, yet there is a toughness about him that makes Darcy’s heart sink into her stomach. Beside him is Kingsley Shacklebolt, a most familiar and relieving sight, and while he meets her eyes for a split second, he does not smile or incline his head or make it at all known that they are friendly. All of the portraits on the walls are watching them most intently, especially Phineas Nigellus, who fixes Darcy with a most curious stare, looking very interested in how all of this is going to play out. When Darcy looks directly at Dumbledore, startled at the brief coldness in his blue eyes, she understands immediately without having to hear him speak. The stakes are so high now that Darcy would not lose her temper if her life depending on it.

“Is this how the Ministry treats teachers at Hogwarts?” Professor McGonagall demands, gesturing towards Darcy’s bondage. “You would not even give this girl the chance to speak! And her cheek . . . her cheek! She’s been struck!” McGonagall looks furious, more angry than Darcy can ever remember seeing her.

Fudge turns incredulously to Darcy, and looks mildly uncomfortable upon seeing her face. Beyond him, Darcy catches sight of herself in a small, cracked mirror, noticing the stark difference right away between her bright red and bruising cheek compared to her untouched one. “Well . . .” Fudge says slowly, looking away from Darcy, turning around completely as if to resist the temptation to lay eyes on her again. “I suppose even Miss Potter knows an escape attempt now would be most foolish. Shacklebolt, remove her bonds. It may be best we hear things from her mouth, anyway.”

Darcy holds her hands up in front of her, and Kingsley flicks his wand at them. The cords around her wrists crumble, and she tears quickly at the ones that gag her. Letting them fall to the ground at her feet, Darcy inhales deeply, waiting for someone else to speak first, not wanting to dig herself any deeper into this hole.

“She was bringing the boy back to her room to when the Malfoy boy tripped him,” Umbridge explains breathlessly, looking more like a toad than ever. “They were heading that way, anyway . . . not that it matters . . . I had Filch watching her fire for signs of wrongdoing.”

Fudge is suddenly able to look Darcy in the face again. He circles her like a bird looking down upon its prey, and Darcy tries to calm her racing heart, tries to control her breathing. Her nerves are jangling, but if this must happen, then she will be in control. She will not allow anyone to look back on this moment and laugh at the way Darcy Potter had lost her head. She will make Snape proud when he hears the story, will impress even the Minister of Magic, and Dumbledore. She will prove to Professor McGonagall that she is not a child, and set an example for her little brother.

“Let us not play foolish games,” Fudge says smoothly, stopping in front of Darcy and puffing his chest out. This might be an impressive sight if Fudge was not shorter than her. “I trust you know why you are here, Miss Potter.”

Without missing a beat, hoping that her voice is not shaking too badly, she answers, “No, sir.”

Fudge blinks in surprise. Darcy looks over his shoulder to Dumbledore, seated at his desk, looking very grave. He inclined his head slightly upon noticing that Darcy is watching. “No? You do not know why you are here?”

“No, sir.”

Fudge clenches his jaw, looking ready to hit her. Instead, he turns to Harry. “And you, boy? Do you know why Professor Umbridge has brought you here, to this office?”

“No,” Harry replies, carefully avoiding looking directly at Darcy while Fudge surveys him so critically.

“So it is news to the both of you,” Fudge continues, stepping up to Darcy again. He holds his hands behind his back, his face closer to hers than she’d like. “That an illegal student organization has been discovered in this school?”

“Yes, sir,” Darcy says flatly, not faltering when he scowls.

“Perhaps I should fetch our informant, Minister?” Umbridge asks sweetly, stepping forward with the ugly smile still stuck on her face. “Perhaps they’ll be more inclined to speak the truth.”

Fudge agrees, and Umbridge hurries out of the office, leaving them in a suffocating silence. After a few moments of this unbearable quiet, Fudge musters a smile (or more of a painful grimace) and clears his throat, looking Darcy up and down. “Come now, Miss Potter . . . you surely see the dilemma you’re in . . .” He seems to expect her to answer, but when she doesn’t, he frowns. “Perhaps a bargain can be reached . . . to save you from rotting away in a cell, certain information could be exchanged in order to shave some time off your inevitable sentence . . .”

Darcy looks around the room, exchanging a sad look with Professor McGonagall. “I am done being interrogated, Minister.” She holds up her hands to reveal the old bruises and odd swelling on her hands and knuckles. Fudge grits his teeth, clearly surprised by this. “I am not interested in exchanging information.”

Fudge’s face turns a color that could rival Vernon’s angriest expression. He takes a step closer, trying to keep Dumbledore and McGonagall from overhearing. “Tell me where Black is, and I will see to it you will spend no more than a year in Azkaban. Tell me where your boyfriend is, and I will personally make sure you receive no more than five.” He takes another step closer, and Darcy is overwhelmed with the strong smell of some foul cologne. “Tell me where we can find them both, and I will allow you to walk out of this castle unharmed, and a free woman.”

Darcy looks at Dumbledore again, but he does not indicate to her anything. Inhaling deeply, Darcy looks back at Fudge again. “He’s not my boyfriend,” she tells him. “I don’t know where they are, and you still have refused to tell me why I should be put in Azkaban in the first place.” She sees it only for a split second, the corners of Dumbledore’s lips twitching.

“I’m not in the mood for games, Miss Potter.”

“Nor am I, Minister.”

“I’m only going to offer you this deal once,” Fudge says again. “Tell me where they are, or face the consequences.”

Darcy swallows hard, but holds her nose in the air, looking down at him. “I’m not interested in cutting deals with the Ministry.”

“Here, here!” one of the portrait’s cries.

They look at each other for another minute. Fudge looks as if he’s trying to will the truth out of her, but Darcy will not budge. If she must go to Azkaban, so be it, but she will not bring Sirius and Lupin with her. And then, the door opens once more, and Darcy looks to see who Umbridge has brought with her. It’s a girl she’s not very familiar with, one of Cho Chang’s friends—Marietta Edgecombe, her curly hair hiding her full cheeks, her hands covering the rest of her bright red face.

“Don’t be frightened, girl,” Umbridge tells her, in what she apparently thinks is a gentle and soothing voice. “The Minister will be pleased . . . he’ll tell your mother what a good girl you are.” She looks pointedly at Fudge. “Madam Edgecombe has been helping us police the Hogwarts fires, Minister.”

“Oh, good, good!” Fudge claps his hands together, inching closer to Marietta. “Come now, dear, lower your hands . . . tell us what— _oh_!”

Darcy almost gasps as Marietta lowers her hands. There’s a few soft noises of surprise at the sight of her face before she hides it again behind her robes. There is no mistaking the word written across her face in large, ugly pimples: _SNEAK_. Marietta cries into her robes, sobbing loudly, and Umbridge’s soft expression turns into one of impatience.

“Never mind the spots, dear . . . tell the Minister what happened . . .”

Marietta shakes her head furiously, crying louder. Darcy heart leaps in her throat, and she and Harry look at each other for a moment, trying not to betray any hint of the truth on their faces. Harry is sweating slightly, his face rather pale, and Darcy finds it much easier to be stronger when Harry is looking so frightened and tense.

Umbridge purses her lips, and upon realizing defeat, resigns to telling Fudge everything herself. “Minister, Miss Edgecombe came to my office shortly after dinner to let me know that, if I proceeded to a room called the Room of Requirement on the seventh floor, I would encounter several students having some kind of meeting there. However . . . before she could say anymore, this hex came into operation, and upon catching sight of herself in the mirror, she refused to say any more.”

“How brave of you, Miss Edgecombe,” Fudge croons, smiling at her. “What can you tell us about this meeting? Who was there? What were they doing?” When Marietta refuses to speak, Fudge becomes visibly distressed and annoyed. “Is there no counterjinx for this?”

“I have not yet been able to find one,” Umbridge confesses sheepishly. “But I can tell you the rest without her. You’ll remember, Minister, that back in October, Mr. Potter had met with several students in the Hog’s Head in order to convince them to join an illegal society to learn spells the Ministry has not deemed age appropriate.”

“You mention Harry,” Professor McGonagall cuts in. “Where was Darcy in all of this?”

Umbridge falters, clearing her throat. “My intelligence had stated that Miss Potter was indeed absent from said meeting, but the facts are quite plain . . . Mr. Potter meant to form an illegal, secret society—”

“I think you’ll find you’re wrong there, Dolores,” Dumbledore interrupts, his voice as calm as can be, unwavering.

“Now, see here, Dumbledore!” Fudge declares angrily, holding up a threatening and shaking finger. “The last thing we need now is some cock and bull story! Let me guess the excuse this time, perhaps involving the reversal of time, a dead man coming back to life, a couple of invisible dementors?”

Darcy catches sight of Percy’s smug face as he writes quickly on the parchment. When his eyes find Darcy, he lowers them again immediately.

“Not this time, Cornelius,” Dumbledore answers, smiling at the Minister. Darcy waits with bated breath for his answer, hoping that he has some card hidden up his sleeve to keep her from going away, hoping that maybe he’ll pull his wand out and kill her before Fudge can drag her screaming to Azkaban. “I am merely pointing out that, at the time of this meeting in the Hog’s Head, student organizations were not illegal.”

While Fudge falters, still flushed, Umbridge replies, “And what of all the meetings since then? All of the meetings that have taken place after the introduction of Educational Decree Number Twenty Four?”

Dumbledore leans forward in his chair, as peaceable as Darcy would like to be, and he steeples his fingers together. “And do you have evidence these meetings continued?”

Over Darcy’s shoulder, she hears Kingsley shift, and feels a chill against her thigh. Looking down, Darcy sees the hem of her skirt move slightly, as if by a gentle breeze. She looks inconspicuously at Kingsley, hoping for some sort of sign things are going to be all right, but he offers none. He holds her gaze for a moment, and finally, inclines his head so slightly that Darcy isn’t sure he’s done it at all.

“Evidence?” Umbridge repeats incredulously, laughing her girlish laugh. “Why do you think Miss Edgecombe is here?”

“Forgive me,” Dumbledore says. “I was under the impression that Miss Edgecombe was only reporting a meeting _tonight_.”

Darcy is sure the entire room can hear the furious beating of her heart. She knows this is it, that Marietta will deliver the damning evidence, that Marietta will be the reason Darcy is ordered to Azkaban. And yet, as Harry side steps closer to his sister and the back of his knuckles brush against hers (Darcy fights the strong urge to hold his clammy hand), she is filled with an odd sense of comfort. She watches Marietta, only her eyes visible, her robes still covering the pockmarks on her face.

“Just nod or shake your head, dear,” Umbridge tells her, a kind of suppressed triumph in her voice. “Have the meetings been happening regularly over the past six months?”

Knowing that it is only a matter of seconds before Marietta reveals them, Darcy takes Harry’s hand in her own, grateful he doesn’t pull away or seem embarrassed in the slightest. Despite the sweat on their palms, and the way their hands shake, Darcy squeezes tight, hoping this will not be the last time she ever gets to hold Harry’s hand. But to her amazement—and seemingly everyone else’s—Marietta shakes her head behind her robes.

Umbridge looks bewildered, her smile flickering. “I don’t think you understood the question,” she continues. “Have you been going to these meetings for the past six months?”

Again, Marietta shakes her head, and a weight is lifted off Darcy’s chest. In complete and utter disbelief, Darcy squeezes Harry’s hand tighter. He squeezes back.

“Was Darcy Potter leading these meetings? Was Darcy Potter teaching you Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

A shake of her head.

“Was the boy?”

Another shake.

“Why are you shaking your head, girl?” Umbridge snarls, and she moves faster than Darcy could have believed possible towards Marietta. Her thick, ringed fingers seize the front of Marietta’s robes and Umbridge gives her a hard shake.

Dumbledore jumps to his feet, and Kingsley moves forward, placing himself between Darcy and Umbridge. “I cannot allow you to manhandle my students,” he says, his voice booming and powerful. “You have already mistreated one of my staff in a most disgusting and horrible way, and I will no longer stand for it.”

When Umbridge releases Marietta, Darcy peers around Kingsley to look at her. Looking shockingly unfazed for someone who has just been shaken so fiercely, Marietta’s eyes are blank and glazed over. She touches the back of Kingsley’s robes, her fingertips pressing just hard enough to catch his attention. Kingsley steps out of the way, eyes flicking from Darcy to Marietta.

“Dolores,” Fudge says quickly, tearing his gaze reluctantly away from Marietta. “The meeting that we know happened tonight . . .”

“Right,” Umbridge sighs, composing herself once more. “Accompanied by trustworthy students, I went directly to the seventh floor to catch them, but someone had warned them. The students were running in every direction, but no matter. We found something in the Room of Requirement that provided all the proof we needed.” She pulls a piece of parchment from the pocket of her robes, and Darcy tenses. Harry’s grip on her hand is now deadly and painful, but she does not dare let go. “You’ll see Potter’s name on it, as well as all the other students. And you see what they’ve named themselves? _Dumbledore’s Army_.”

Fudge appears thunderstruck. Darcy knows her name is not upon the parchment, knows that there could be some chance she could walk away from this meeting untouched and safe, and she doesn’t know what possesses her to say it—“It was me,” she announces, and all eyes fall on her. Umbridge’s smile widens. “It wasn’t Harry, it was me. I was—am—the leader.”

“You?” Fudge asks, sounding as though Christmas has come early.

Dumbledore sighs deeply, almost contently. “Well, the game is up. Would you like a written confession from me, Cornelius?”

Fudge’s face falls, and he looks away quickly from Darcy. “A—a confession? But Miss Potter’s just admitted—”

“ _Dumbledore’s_ Army, not _Potter’s_ Army.” Dumbledore shrugs, looking as if this is merely a game. “Tonight was the be the first meeting, to see who might be interested. I was going to have Darcy fill in for me, who—due to my sheer amount of work—was going to lead them.” Darcy closes her eyes and exhales loudly. There is no escape this time, and Darcy tries not to picture herself in a dank cell, going mad with the rest of the prisoners. Something warm drips on her lip and her fingers touch blood dripping from her nose. She wipes it away quickly with her sleeve. “I see now that it was a mistake to invite Miss Edgecombe.”

“Then you _have_ been plotting against me!” Fudge cries, the blood drained from his face. “I knew you had Miss Potter here for a reason—the entire time I knew there was something going on—an _apprentice_ . . . really, Dumbledore!” He turns on his heel to look at Percy, a vein throbbing in his temple. “Have you got all of that, Weasley?”

“Yes, sir!” Percy answers breathlessly.

“Send a copy of your notes to the _Daily Prophet_! We’ll be able to make the morning edition!” Fudge is breathing very heavily, and with a manic gleam in his eyes, looks from Darcy to Dumbledore and back again. “Dumbledore, Miss Potter, you will be escorted to the Ministry to be formally charged and then sent to Azkaban to await trial.”

Darcy can’t stop the blood that spills from her nose now, entering her mouth and smearing on her lips and staining her blouse. She holds a hand up to her face, her eyes filling with tears. Her heart beats a violent tattoo against her throat, and through her head run all of the things she wants to say to everyone she loves—she wants to apologize to Snape, to kiss Harry on the cheek in reassurance, to hug McGonagall for what she has done, sleep beside Gemma one more time. And Lupin . . . when Lupin comes home, it will be to the news that Darcy is in Azkaban, and she knows Sirius will go mad knowing that his goddaughter has gone to the prison he escaped . . .

“No!” Harry shouts, and he pulls hard on Darcy’s hand, right into his chest. With a protective arm around her, Harry looks around the room.

“Oh, Harry,” Dumbledore says, giving Darcy a long look, his eyes twinkling. “I have no intention of going to Azkaban, and I will not allow Darcy to go, either.”

“Enough of this rubbish!” Fudge growls. Umbridge takes a step closer to Darcy, prepared to snatch her from Harry, her face beet red. “Shacklebolt! Dawlish! _Take them_!”

Darcy screams as the Auror called Dawlish lunges for her, but before he can reach her, there’s a bright silver flash and the floor seems to quiver beneath her feet. Someone pushes her down to the ground, and Darcy and Harry hold each other for a moment as there’s another flash of light—there’s the sounds of a scuffle, bodies falling on the ground, and a cloud of dust settles over the office. The screeching of a bird, the shouting of the portraits, someone cries out and collapses, the table in front of them overturns, blocking the rest of the office from view. Darcy lifts her head to look Harry in the face.

“Are you all right?” she whispers through the quiet, shaking violently in his arms.

“Yeah,” he breathes back, reaching up to wipe Darcy’s mouth with the sleeve of his robes. “Are you?”

“Yeah.”

Beside them is Professor McGonagall, who has Harry almost in a chokehold, holding Marietta to the ground with her free hand. There are heavy footsteps coming nearer and Darcy closes her eyes, waiting for someone to grab her, to drag her from the office by the hair, but it’s only Dumbledore, and he offers Darcy a hand. She takes it, standing shakily to her feet. Darcy wishes she could stop shaking, but it’s nearly impossible—fear surges through her, but as the dust settles, she sees everyone lying on the ground, unconscious, save for herself and Dumbledore, Harry, McGonagall, and Marietta.

“Quick thinking on Kingsley’s part, modifying Miss Edgecombe’s memory like that. I am sorry I had to hex him, but I did not want to raise suspicions.” Dumbledore gives Darcy a knowing look, withdrawing his wand and giving it a wave, producing a handkerchief. He gives it to her and Darcy holds it gratefully to her nose. “Now, they will all awake shortly, and I do not want them to think any time has passed and we have had time to converse.”

Feeling lightheaded, Darcy sways on her feet.

“You do not have long. Maybe a minute. Darcy, say goodbye to Harry.” Dumbledore turns his back on them, pulling Professor McGonagall aside and speaking quickly into her ear.

Darcy turns back to Harry, still clutching the handkerchief to her nose. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, touching her shoulders. “I never should have gotten you involved. I never wanted you to go to Azkaban.”

“I know,” Darcy says wearily, pocketing the handkerchief. “I don’t regret any of it, Harry.”

“Will you be all right?” he asks, giving her a painfully sad look.

Darcy nods slowly. “I’ll be with Sirius, and Remus. I’ll be okay with them.” She can tell Harry isn’t convinced, and neither is she. “I’ll be okay.” Both of them, without warning, wrap their arms around each other. Darcy combs the back of his hair, fisting it and tugging. “Be good. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Darcy kisses Harry’s head, and he accepts it without protest. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees McGonagall dabbing her teary eyes on her sleeve.

Dawlish begins to stir feebly. Harry grasps Darcy’s hands, holding tight. Darcy nods, unable to say anymore owing to how dry her mouth it. She wants to vomit, to cry, to sleep. Dumbledore pulls her away from Harry, and their sweaty hands slip apart with ease. “I’ll see you soon,” Darcy says breathlessly as Dumbledore’s arm slips around her, holding her tight to him. “I’ll see you soon, Harry.”

Darcy looks up to see Fawkes circling over she and Dumbledore’s head. Surveying the room once more, noticing everyone beginning to stir now, groaning softly and exhaling deeply. Dumbledore reaches up with one of his long arms and takes hold of Fawkes’ tail feathers. A tingling feeling overtakes her—not quite a comforting warmth, but as if her skin is burning in the sun. And then flames engulf her, surround her, and everything turns red. Her head throbs as if being squeezed into a pinhole, Dumbledore’s fingers tighten suddenly and then release her.

Her knees slam painfully onto solid ground, and the heat leaves her. Gasping for breath, Darcy looks around her, suddenly very frightened now. The first thing she realizes is that she’s alone—Dumbledore has left her with no explanation, no time for her to explain herself. Before she can process where she’s kneeling, Darcy collapses, trying to catch her breath. All she can think about is what is happening Dumbledore’s office, now that Umbridge is awake, and Fudge . . . what will they do to Harry? To McGonagall? To everyone on that parchment? And to think . . . she had almost gone to Azkaban—had almost spent what would probably have been the rest of her life, if Voldemort hadn’t come to kill her first. Still adjusting from the uncomfortable bout of traveling, Darcy suddenly vomits violently on the floor.

At the sound of heavy footsteps growing nearer, she looks up and finds herself in the kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, on her hands and knees and facing the fireplace. Sirius’ voice calls, “ _Darcy_?”

Strong hands clamp down upon her shoulders and Darcy is dead weight in his arms as he pulls her to his chest. It is exactly where she wants to be right now, exactly the kind of comfort and love that she needs after all that has just happened. Uncaring about the blood that Darcy smears on his shirt, Sirius holds her for a moment. He smooths her hair out of her face, holding her tighter as if to stop her violent shaking.

“What’s happened, sweetheart?” Sirius murmurs, kissing her damp brow and cradling her still to his chest. Darcy pulls her knees up to her chest, her chest aching something awful. He touches her face, fingertips grazing over the cheek that Umbridge had slapped. “How did you . . . what is going on? Has someone hit you?”

“They were going to take me to Azkaban,” Darcy croaks, her throat completely raw.

“ _What_?” Sirius roars very loudly in her ear. Darcy flinches, but Sirius looks enraged. His eyes are hard and cold now, teeth bared in a snarl. He looks more the half-dead man he’d been that night in the Shrieking Shack. “On what grounds? Who did this to you? Umbridge?”

“Isn’t . . . isn’t anyone here?” Darcy asks, suddenly noticing that no one has followed Sirius into the kitchen. Lupin, Gemma, Emily, or even Tonks . . . surely it wasn’t just Sirius here? She wants a body to curl up with in bed, and she’s too humiliated to confess this to Sirius, who likely wouldn’t want to share a bed with her at all—for understandable reasons, of course, she doesn’t blame him. “I don’t want to talk about it right now . . . not until I know . . .”

“All right,” Sirius says, looking more unnerved. “It’s just us here now. Here, hold this to your nose and tilt your head back. How did you get here? Did you come from Hogwarts?”

“Yeah,” Darcy rasps. “Dumbledore brought me with Fawkes.” She waits for the blood to stop flowing before speaking again. “I think I’d like to go to bed now.”

“I’ll walk you up. Sleep will be good for you. Are you . . . not going back?”

Darcy swallows loudly. “I don’t think so.”

They walk very slowly up the stairs. Darcy just wants to sleep, to forget about everything, but she can’t. Professor McGonagall won’t let anything happen to Harry, would she? Or is it beyond her control now? Would they expel him? He could just come back to Grimmauld Place if that’s so, couldn’t he? Would they expel Ron and Hermione, too? Everyone who was involved? And Dumbledore had just gone . . . what was going to happen to Hogwarts now? Will Professor Umbridge suspect Snape having a hand in things? Thinking so much makes her dizzy, but overwhelmed with panic, she can’t clear her head.

“Are they going to find me here?”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Sirius asks gently, and when Darcy sees his face again, she notices he’s paled. She doesn’t answer, afraid that saying their names will somehow alert them to her presence here. “You’re safe here, Darcy.”

“Right.”

Darcy hates crawling into her empty bed, but is glad that Sirius fluffs her pillow, pulls the blankets up to her chin. She doesn’t even bother changing into pajamas. He sits down on the bed beside her and looks at her for a long time. There is still subdued rage in his gray eyes, for they lack their usual warmth, instead adopting a more glazed over look in the flickering orange light. Darcy can especially see the traces of Azkaban now, in such intimate and soft lighting—the pale and waxy complexion of a man who has gone years without seeing sunlight, the sunken eyes and always pale lips and gums, looking more like a vampire than a man sometimes. She remembers how thin he used to be, his spine and ribs pronounced, the way he would vomit after eating second helpings of Mrs. Weasley’s food over summer simply because he couldn’t handle it. The odd social habits, never seeming to know how close is too close, or when to touch someone. Darcy can’t help but to wonder if she would be the same way. Could she survive that long in Azkaban? Surely not . . . her mind isn’t, and has never been, as strong and as stable as Sirius’ had been, surely.

“If someone from Hogwarts comes, or Kingsley . . .” Darcy says hoarsely, sitting up and drawing her knees to her again. “Will you wake me?”

Sirius nods slowly. He exhales through his nose, patting her knee, seemingly at a loss as to what to say. “I’ll bring breakfast up tomorrow for you,” he says. “And then we can talk about what happened after you’ve finished.”

“Okay.” Darcy calls him back when Sirius makes to leave her. “Remember, wake me if anyone comes.”

“I will.” Sirius kisses her head again and extinguishes the lights, leaving her in the darkness. Through the window, the waning half-moon still has yet to reach its peak, high in the sky. It shines feebly, casting a sliver of silver on the floor of Darcy’s bedroom.

At the thought of Harry, Darcy’s stomach gives a turn. She rolls over with her back to the grimy, moonlit window, thinking hard, wondering if Professor Snape will come to see her, and wondering if he would be willing to pass a note to Harry. And then—as she lays there, attempted to clear her mind of the night’s events, she’s struck with a sudden idea. Without another thought, Darcy throws the blankets off her and slides out of bed, not making a sound while crossing the room on her tiptoes. She presses her ear to the door and hears Sirius’ footsteps retreat back down below, and Darcy opens the door. It creaks, but not loudly enough that it draws any attention.

Darcy heads for the stairs, making for the next floor up. Her legs seem stronger as she climbs them, her resolve somewhat recovering at the knowledge that she’ll be able to find out exactly what happened after Dumbledore left. Upon entering the bedroom, however, the portrait is empty. Darcy walks right up to it, and hesitates before calling for him—has enough time passed that it’s safe now? Are Fudge and Umbridge gone? Was Kingsley all right? How is Harry?

“Phineas?” Darcy asks tentatively, unsure if anyone will be able to hear her on the other side. “Phineas, are you there?”

There’s a curious humming noise, and Phineas Nigellus steps suddenly into his frame, stroking his pointed chin. “I thought you might seek me when you arrived,” he mutters, seating himself in his overly large chair, spreading his legs and sighing. “What an interesting creature you are, Darcy Potter, to lie to the Minister of Magic so boldly.”

Darcy doesn’t answer, not trusting herself to speak.

“You’re curious about the state of your brother, are you not?”

Darcy nods.

“Fudge thinks you and Dumbledore are still fleeing the castle by way of stairs or through the grounds. The Aurors are searching the school and your brother has been saved expulsion and sent back to his dormitory.”

Suddenly, the air seems cleaner and easier to breathe, and Darcy laughs in disbelief, a hoarse and weak thing, but it’s laughter nonetheless. Phineas does not share her joy. He only watches her with that clever face of his, long and drawn. She wonders if Phineas truly did look so serious, or if he was only painted that way.

“You could have walked away from that unscathed,” Phineas tells Darcy. “You could have told him the truth and saved yourself this . . . burden. And now . . . because you decided to be _noble_ and _brave_ , you’re facing charges of . . . what? Conspiracy? Harboring a dangerous fugitive? Maybe your brother will call your actions brave, but I think them the actions of a fool.”

“Perhaps loyalty is a word you ought familiarize yourself with, Phineas,” Darcy says, and Phineas raises his eyebrows, affronted. “I would never give them up, to have them thrown in Azkaban in my place.”

“‘Tis what I would have done,” Phineas shrugs. “Especially in your place. You wouldn’t last a day in there. I don’t know you very well, but the snatches I have caught of you . . . arrogant, bull-headed, drowning in self-loathing . . .”

“Stop it,” she snaps, blushing fiercely.

“You young people are all the same,” he continues as if she hadn’t spoken. “Always thinking in the now, in the present, with no thought of consequences or repercussions. Are you proud of what you’ve done, Potter? If you had kept your mouth shut, then you might still have a place at Hogwarts.”

“How was I supposed to know Dumbledore was going to take the blame?” Darcy asks hotly. “He had given me no prior indication that there was a plan. I just didn’t want Harry to be expelled.”

“Even if your brother had been expelled, is that not better than yourself being thrown into Azkaban?”

“My priority is keeping Harry safe, not that you’d know anything about putting family first, the way you talk to Sirius.”

“Yes,” Phineas replies in a bored sort of tone. “And now you’ve got a bounty on your head because of it. If they find you, you will never leave that place. Not now that the Minister of Magic thinks you’ve been leading an army for Dumbledore.” He gets to his feet. “And now, I think I’ll take my leave. I find you rather dull, Miss Potter. Pretty, but dull.”

Darcy purses her lips, chewing on her cheek a moment. “Are you going to tell Umbridge where I am?”

“I daresay I won’t get the chance, even if I wanted to,” Phineas answer slyly, a crooked grin appearing on his face. “There is no doubt Dolores Umbridge will declare herself Headmistress with Dumbledore. It’s what he expected. However, the Headmaster’s office will only open and allow in the rightful Headmaster or Headmistress of Hogwarts.”

“Meaning?” Darcy asks, her curiosity spiking.

Phineas notices her eagerness, his smile widening, seeming very pleased with himself for causing this effect. “ _Meaning_ ,” he continues, “that the Headmaster’s office will seal itself against her. I suppose, perhaps, Professor McGonagall _could_ enter, as rightful Deputy Headmistress . . . but, suffice it to say, Potter, that I will not be seeing much of Umbridge, therefore will not be able to divulge her of your whereabouts.”

“You wouldn’t,” Darcy says quickly, hoping to keep Phineas talking, hopeful for more information he’s been keeping. “You have a duty to the Headmaster, and Dumbledore would be furious with you.”

He scoffs. “My duty to the Headmaster or Headmistress of Hogwarts is far more complicated than that. Though . . . I don’t expect _you_ to understand such advanced and unusual magic . . .”

Darcy ignores the slight. “If I came back in . . . say, three days, would you speak with me?”

Phineas considers her carefully, his eyes narrowed so much that she thinks they may be shut. “Fine . . . but not because I enjoy it,” he finally answers. “But because I find you so intriguing. Now, good-bye, Darcy Potter. I’ll see you in three days time.”

She watches him until he’s out of the portrait completely before turning around to face the empty room. The bed is empty and made, not having been slept in for months. A thin layer of dust has settled on the floor, muffling her footsteps. She tries to fully accept the idea that this place, that number twelve, Grimmauld Place, will be her home from now until . . . when? Permanently? Until Umbridge is sacked—if she ever is? When Voldemort makes his move in the open, proving to Fudge that they’ve been telling the truth?

Darcy curls up in her own bed a few minutes later, closing her eyes tight. There’s the tedious ticking of the clock upon her dresser, the occasional settling of the house, the creaking of floorboards outside her bedroom when Sirius goes to bed soon after. Hours later, as she still lies awake, the loneliness begins to creep in. The bed is not as comfortable as her one at Hogwarts. The sounds are different. The smells are different. She doesn’t know why all of this hits her all at once.

_It’s better than Azkaban_ , she tells herself, willing herself into a deep sleep. 


	53. Chapter 53

When Darcy wakes, she finds a cold breakfast on the nightstand. She wonders briefly why Sirius didn’t wake her, for she hadn’t even heard him come in, but it was very late when she’d gotten to sleep, and her sleep had been so restless and fitful at first that it was a while before she slept deeply without dreams. Nightmares had caused her to thrash, and with no one to comfort her or hold her, she had fallen out of bed once and woke again a little while later wrapped so tightly in the blankets that she thought someone had come to kidnap her. Half the night she had tossed the blankets off in order to cool down, drenched in sweat; the other half she spent with the blankets over her head to give her some semblance of arms around her.

She doesn’t want the cold porridge and sausages waiting to be eaten. She wants to be seated at the staff table, beside Professor Snape, helping herself to the multitude of dishes, piling her plate full of her favorite foods. Darcy pictures the staff table today—two people missing, one of them the Headmaster. She imagines Umbridge taking it upon herself to sit in his chair, to pretend as if she deserves to sit in that chair. She thinks of her classes, of her first years, how they will react to her absence, wondering if Professor Snape will be bombarded with questions he’s unable to answer. She wonders if he’s thinking of her, worried about her—wonders if he’ll come to her, just to make sure she is safe and unharmed.

But according to her watch, still on her wrist, classes won’t be over for hours. It may be possible Snape could come early today, for Tuesdays mean one less class in the afternoon for them—for _him_ now, not for her, that is. And as Darcy mulls this all over, she can’t quite explain why the desire to see Professor Snape is so strong in her. Perhaps because she so wants to apologize to him for getting herself sacked, or maybe to thank him for keeping his promise to her about never having to go to Azkaban, even though he hadn’t been present in Dumbledore’s office when everything had happened. Or maybe it’s the fact that Lupin still has not returned, and while he has disappointed her with long absences before, Snape has always returned without fail, without worry, has always been available when needed.

She thinks about Snape more than she wants to, but she can’t get him out of her head. Her savior—whenever there is incident, he’s there, always, to save her, to rescue her, to nurse her back to stability. Darcy has thanked him in the past for his actions, but she wants to thank him properly, to let him know that she trusts him completely and wholly, that the Dark Mark still branded upon his arm is sometimes forgotten during times of decency and kindness. Guilt eats away at her when she thinks of him, too—the guilt of knowing how he feels about her, the knowing that she could never love him back the way he wants her to. There is history between them that Darcy cannot ignore, an instilled meanness that Darcy knows is always there, despite the way he softens around her. It’s one of the things she loves most about Lupin—his kindness, his good nature, his ability to be warm and friendly to everyone who deserves it.

Darcy isn’t sure on her feelings for Snape. It’s nothing surprising to recognize she loves him, but she can’t quite place the feelings. A love she has never felt for anybody, so close to her heart, but as if it’s a secret she doesn’t want anyone to know. His happiness, his wellbeing—she cares about these things, and it breaks her heart to think that Snape may look upon her and feel _sad_. If she sees him today, she thinks, if he comes early to see her, maybe she’ll do something kind for him. Maybe she’ll kiss his cheek in thanks, let his arms hold her for a moment before he leaves. Darcy can’t hide the fact she is more than starved for affection at the moment, and she’s sure that Snape would not refuse.

Regardless, she hopes Snape brings the rest of her things left at Hogwarts if he does decide to pay her a visit.

Kingsley and Emily are the first visitors around noontime. Sirius escorts them to Darcy’s bedroom to see her, and Emily immediately runs at her, throwing her arms around Darcy’s neck and sighing loudly in relief. Darcy is grateful Emily has come, resting her face in the warm crook of her neck as Kingsley crosses the room.

“I’m so relieved,” Emily says breathlessly, holding Darcy out at arm’s length. Darcy moves over on the bed to allow Emily more room. “Kingsley told me everything on the way here . . . I’m going to St Mungo’s immediately after to let Gemma know to come here tonight. I was so worried, Darcy. Has anyone come from Hogwarts yet? Probably not.”

“No, not yet,” Darcy answers, frowning. “I spoke to Phineas Nigellus last night; he has another portrait hanging in Dumbledore’s office. He was sure that Umbridge would claim the title of Headmistress.”

“She has,” Kingsley answers. Emily’s face falls even further, and she holds Darcy’s hands loosely. “The Minister signed the official order just hours after you and Dumbledore left. He hasn’t been here, has he?”

“No,” Darcy says, feeling a stirring in her stomach. “He dropped me here and left without even stopping. You mean you don’t know where he is?”

“No one does,” Kingsley replies, looking uncharacteristically anxious. “He left no word with myself, nor anyone else I’ve spoken with from the Order. I’m hoping some answers lie with Minerva or Severus . . . they may have known something Dumbledore did not confide in us as a whole.” Upon catching sight of Darcy’s fearful face, he recovers himself, shaking his head. “I do not doubt Dumbledore will return soon. It is only a matter of time before the truth comes out—that is what he is undoubtedly working so hard to prove now. He would not be able to do much here.”

“How is Harry? Surely Fudge told you anything of importance?” Darcy asks Kingsley, almost desperate for information.

“I haven’t seen much of the Minister today,” Kingsley confesses gently. “Whatever I find out, I promise it, I will bring the information straight to you.”

“Thank you, Kingsley.”

“Well,” he takes a step back towards the door and nods politely at Darcy and Emily, “I’m relieved to see you arrived here in one piece. It was very brave of you, Darcy, to protect both Sirius and Remus despite such a good deal being offered you. Dumbledore would be proud, I think.”

Darcy blushes, and Emily seems to swell with pride, smiling at Darcy. “Thank you.”

“I’ll leave you two. Emily, should I wait for you?”

“No,” Emily says distractedly. “I’ve got to make it over to St Mungo’s before I’m expected back at the office.”

Kingsley leaves them with a nod, closing the door behind him.

“How are you feeling?” Emily asks soothingly, rubbing Darcy’s arm to comfort her. “Sirius says you haven’t left your room all morning.”

“Not true. I went to the bathroom earlier.”

“Come on, Darcy. It’s just us. I know you must be so afraid. I would be, if I were you.”

“I am,” Darcy admits. “For a moment, in Dumbledore’s office, I . . . I thought they were really going to take me. And Harry . . . I have no way to communicate with him unless Snape or McGonagall agree to carry notes to him, but that would be so infrequent, I . . . what if something happens to him and I’m not there?”

“Professor McGonagall is a lot tougher than she looks,” Emily assures her, checking her expensive-looking watch. “As long as she’s there . . . she’ll make sure the students are safe.”

Darcy sighs, chewing her lower lip. “Emily, this is bad. With Dumbledore missing, Voldemort could move into the open.”

“Even Voldemort’s not fool enough to believe Dumbledore is gone for good,” Emily says with a wave of her hand, and Darcy is so comforted by these words that her heart feels a little lighter. “Dumbledore isn’t hiding . . . he just doesn’t want to be found.” Emily sighs deeply, reaching into her robes to withdraw a piece of newspaper folded into a tiny square. “This was in the morning’s _Prophet_.”

Darcy takes it warily from her, unfolding it to read the headline of the article Emily’s kept:

**Darcy Potter Conspires With Dumbledore Against Ministry of Magic**

_The Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, released a statement late Monday evening regarding Darcy Potter, sister of Harry Potter, after she had been caught raising, training, and leading an army at Albus Dumbledore’s request to fight back against the Ministry of Magic. It is common knowledge that the now former Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has been seeking the job of Minister. Formal charges were to be made against her today, but since last evening when plans to escort her and Dumbledore to await sentencing, the two are currently missing._

_Aurors have been put on the missing persons case and are determined to bring both Potter and Dumbledore to justice. The Ministry is offering a reward for their capture, and urges the public to come forward with any information regarding their whereabouts._

_Potter, 20, who has spoken out on werewolf rights in the past, may be in hiding with her former teacher and lover, infamous werewolf, Remus Lupin, 35. Also assumed to have ties to her godfather, Azkaban escapee and Death Eater, Sirius Black, 36. The Minister reminds all of the public that these fugitives should be considered armed and dangerous, and asks that if sighted, to contact Magical Law Enforcement immediately._

“The Ministry’s in fucking chaos,” Emily says, frowning as Darcy folds the paper back up again. “Kingsley’s been tasked with finding you and Sirius, while Fudge has put a task force of other Aurors together to locate Dumbledore. Kingsley is having them search up north, closer to Hogwarts. He’s convinced Fudge you wouldn’t stray too far from Harry.”

Darcy takes a cigarette off the nightstand, lighting it with the last match she has. Rubbing her temples, she shakes her head. “A fucking nightmare,” she grumbles, looking back up into Emily’s face. “And if I turn myself in?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Emily retorts. “You’re not going to turn yourself in.”

Taking a long pull off her cigarette, Darcy works her jaw, quiet for a long time. “You’ll come back tonight, won’t you? With Gemma?”

“If I can.”

With this ominous statement, Emily decides to take her leave, kissing Darcy’s cheek and leaving her alone in the bedroom again.

She wonders almost immediately if Kingsley had told Sirius about the events of last night, for Darcy finds she doesn’t want to tell him herself. Instead, when he calls her for a late lunch, Darcy slips into the bathroom and runs a hot bath for herself. The hot feels good against her skin, like the tingling sensation she’d felt while traveling via phoenix. To fill the horrid silence, Darcy reads out loud to herself from an old poetry book Lupin had gotten her nearly a year ago.

“‘It was a long time ago. I have almost forgotten my dream. But it was there then, in front of me, bright like a sun—’” Darcy takes a pull from her cigarette, too tall for the bathtub. “‘My dream. And then the wall rose, rose slowly, slowly, between me and the dream. Rose until it touches the sky—’” She drapes her legs over the rim of the tub and goosebumps erupt on her flesh.

Something creaks outside the bathroom. Darcy is grateful she’s bolted the door, for it sounds suspiciously like Kreacher lurking around.

Darcy hesitates, listening for more noise, before lowering her eyes and continuing. “‘The wall. Shadow. I am black. I lie down in the shadow. No longer the light of my dream before me, above me. Only the thick wall. Only the shadow.’” She ashes into an ashtray on the floor beside her, long arm reaching over the tub. “‘My hands! My dark hands! Break through the wall! Find my dream!’”

There’s another creak. Darcy watches the door for a moment.

“‘Help me to shatter this darkness, to smash this night, to break this shadow into a thousand lights of sun’,” she finishes. “‘Into a thousand whirling dreams of sun!’” Darcy scoffs, closing the book with a snap. “Rubbish.”

“Darcy,” Sirius says, making her jump in the bath. He knocks against the door softly and she silently curses him for listening. “Come downstairs when you’re done. I want to talk to you.”

“I’m not ready to talk about it with you.”

“Kingsley already told me everything,” Sirius replies, not unkindly. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Darcy pauses, thinking. It suddenly strikes her how odd the situation is—bathing in her new semi-permanent home, her loving godfather knocking on the door asking to help her. No more pushing meals through cat-flaps on the door or having to worry about being caned. Gone are the days of having to retreat in her room and stew in her feelings of longing and loathing. Here is a guardian who cares for her wellbeing, and isn’t trying to be nosy, but helpful.

“I’ll be done in a moment,” Darcy says, and Sirius is pleased with her answer. She’s in the drawing room within five minutes, not having bothered to dry her hair. She takes a towel to it as she sits on the sofa opposite Sirius, and the fire is warm and inviting, crackling happily in the recently cleaned fireplace.

As Darcy raises a brush to her long, tangled, dark red hair, Sirius holds out a hand to stop her. “Could . . . could I . . . ?”

Darcy blinks, looking down at her brush and then back up at Sirius. “You want to . . . brush my hair?”

“If that’s all right with you.” Color floods Sirius’ face, but the effect is rather pleasant. It gives his face a healthy and handsome look.

Not wanting to be rude, blushing hard, Darcy clears her throat and agrees. She passes Sirius the brush over the table and she moves slowly towards him, seating herself at his feet, her back against his shins. Facing the fire, Darcy sits very still as Sirius runs the brush through her hair, going easy on the knots as if he’s done this a thousand times before. It seems sometimes he attempts to prolong the time spent doing it, possibly in the hopes to appreciate the gesture properly before the moment is gone.

“Why didn’t you tell Fudge the truth?” Sirius finally asks, and his voice is soft and curious, laced with disbelief. “You could have kept your job, been a free woman.”

“I would never let them take you back to Azkaban.” Darcy stretches out her legs before her. “I love you too much to let you go back there, Sirius.”

Sirius stops brushing her hair for just a second, recovering himself quickly and combing through a particularly large knot. “I hope you don’t hate it here,” he says. “I know it’s not the most pleasant home in the world, nor the cleanest . . . I’ve been alone here for so long, but you’re here now . . . and suddenly this place doesn’t seem so bad.”

Darcy tenses. Sirius is either feeling very, very sorry for her, or he deeply cares about her to be confessing such things, and she can’t determine which it is.

“I used to envy your father,” he says quietly, and Darcy feels that if she turns around, she’ll see a fifteen-year-old boy behind her, not a grown man. “Remus told me that he’d let it slip I ran away from home, went round your dad’s. What a strange thing it was to see a family so loving, a family so happy. I wanted to hate them, but how could I? They gave me a warm bed to sleep in, fed me at their own table, never hexed me or hit me.”

“It’s like you’re an intruder,” Darcy adds, remembering days spent at Emily’s home, an outsider at the dinner table, intruding on something private. “Like you don’t belong there.”

“It’s surreal. I couldn’t quite believe there could be such a thing as a perfect family, but the Potters were.” Sirius inhales deeply. “Meanwhile I lived here, in this deplorable home full of my mother’s pureblood relics and trophies, house-elf heads on the walls. She hated me, and I hated her. I never realized a thing like a happy family could ever exist.”

Darcy doesn’t say anything, Sirius continues to brush her hair.

“It was one of the things I missed the most in Azkaban,” Sirius says. Darcy has a feeling he hasn’t spoken these thoughts aloud to anyone, for he seems to think hard about each word he uses. “James was like a brother to me, Darcy. We spent every second together during school, I stayed summers at his home. I craved a family again, something I know you privately dream of, too.”

“I do.”

“Well . . . I know that life will never be normal for you, or for me. Maybe one day . . . after the war ends . . . maybe then it could happen, but I might be too old by then.” Sirius stops brushing, and Darcy turns around to face him, still leaning against one of his legs. “Twelve years I wasted away in that prison, only to find you, and Harry . . . were the years worth it if they meant escaping to be a family again?”

“I don’t know,” Darcy whispers, frightened by his somber mood. It’s so unlike him that, for a moment, she wonders if it’s actually Sirius speaking to her. “Do you think they were worth it?”

“Some nights,” Sirius shrugs. “Other times it’s harder to convince myself. Some nights are harder than others.”

“Do you get nightmares?” She isn’t sure if she’s crossed a line, but Sirius doesn’t seem angry.

“Sometimes. Do I wake you at night?”

“No. I’m a heavy sleeper. Do I wake you?”

“Sometimes.”

Darcy blushes. “Sorry. Some nights are worse than others.” She feels suddenly very childlike. “That’s why I don’t like sleeping alone.”

“What do you have nightmares of?”

Darcy frowns. She isn’t keen on discussing her nightmares, but the boldness with which Sirius has asked his question slightly impresses her. “I dream of that night, mostly. The night mum and dad died. Sometimes it’s other things.”

“Like what?”

“Like the Chamber of Secrets. I dream about that a lot, too.” Darcy licks her lips. “What are your nightmares of?”

“The dementors,” Sirius murmurs, looking into the fire with a glossy-eyed expression. “The sound of the waves slamming into the walls. The sound of the dementors’ rattling breath. Other prisoners going mad, the screaming, the crying. The cold. Especially the cold.”

“I’m sorry.” Darcy gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

Sirius smiles weakly at her, touching her hair with the utmost gentility. “Hair just like your mother’s.” His hand falls back into his lap. “Up close, you do look so much like your father, Darcy.” He cradles her cheek with his palm, and Darcy nuzzles into it automatically, closing her eyes.

There’s the slamming of a door and both Sirius and Darcy jump to their feet, brought rudely out of their reverie. Sirius holds his wand out, urging Darcy to stay behind him. Darcy doesn’t have to be told twice—her heart hammering, she almost imagines Dawlish or Fudge himself to peer into the drawing room, surrounded by Aurors to help capture her. But—with a feeling of lightness—Darcy wonders if it is finally Lupin, come home to kiss her, to hold her, to love her.

She follows Sirius into the corridor outside as someone comes into view, but it isn’t someone to collect her, nor is it Lupin—it’s Snape, holding a cauldron in one hand, a small, battered trunk and Darcy’s ingredients kit in the other. He lowers the things to his feet at the sight of Sirius and Darcy, and all at once, just at the mere sight of him, the dam in Darcy breaks and she begins to cry loudly, running towards him and throwing herself at him.

Darcy’s arms wrap around his neck tight, causing him to stumble backwards into the trunk, but Snape’s hold her firm around the waist, his face buried in her hair. “I’m sorry,” she sobs. Darcy pulls away to look into his face, wishing she could stop crying, wishing he’d stop looking at her like she’s crazy. “I’m so sorry—”

Snape’s hands jump to her face, holding her steady with a palm to each cheek. “It’s all right,” he says. “Stop crying—stop it, Darcy—it’s all right—”

“I’m so sorry,” she rasps, clutching at his cloak, so eager to hear what news Snape has, but so nervous. “I never meant for it to go so far—I thought—”

“Has anyone else come here yet?”

Tearfully, holding onto his wrists, Darcy nods. “Kingsley and Emily came earlier,” she replies. “Please . . . what’s happening at Hogwarts? How’s Harry? I’ve been so worried about him—”

It takes Snape the better part of ten minutes to stop her crying, while Sirius watches from a few feet away, pressed against a shadowy wall with a scowl on his face. It’s messy and loud, with scoffs coming from Sirius every so often and a loud protest from him when Snape commands him to make Darcy a cup of hot cocoa (which he does in the end—“For _Darcy_ ,” Sirius says coldly before slinking off to the kitchen). Snape wipes her tears with his palms, encourages Darcy to drink her hot cocoa, and eventually carries her things to her bedroom, Darcy trailing behind him, still sniffling, casting one last look at Sirius before rounding the corner.

“I looked everywhere for your owl,” Snape says, placing the trunk on Darcy’s bed and her cauldron upon the floor by the foot of the bed. “But I couldn’t find him.”

“I’m sure he’ll find me,” she says, her voice hoarse from crying. Darcy closes the door of her bedroom, and Snape clears his throat, looking around awkwardly. “How’s Harry? I heard Umbridge declared herself Headmistress—”

“Your brother is fine.” Snape pauses, and Darcy wishes he would just say Harry. But he doesn’t. “Umbridge asked for Veritaserum today, likely to interrogate your brother—”

“About what?” Darcy asks, panicking. “About me?”

“It doesn’t matter. What I gave her was not Veritaserum.” Snape looks at her for a long time before sitting on the edge of Darcy’s unmade bed. “McGonagall told me everything that happened in the Headmaster’s office, shortly after you’d gone. Why didn’t you come straight to me?”

Darcy falters, stammering for a moment as she tries to think of something to say. She moves closer, sitting beside him on the bed. “I wanted to,” she replies, furrowing her brow. “Umbridge caught me before I even made it to the stairs. I wanted to scream, to make you hear me, but even if I could have, you wouldn’t have heard me.”

Snape lowers his eyes, fixing them on her hands, where the bruises from Umbridge’s last lashings are still visible, as well as some chafing around her wrists where the cords had cut into her. He takes her left hand, worse than the right, into both of his own, brushing his thumbs over her knuckles, something she’s gotten used to. It almost surprises her to realize she doesn’t quite mind it anymore, the gentle way he touches her—his hands are like marble, smooth and unblemished, paler than her own skin, always cold. Snape turns her hand over, palm up, tracing the lines on her palm as Professor Trelawney might, as if trying to learn some interesting information by reading her hands.

And then he sighs heavily, folding her long, slender fingers down to make a loose fist and bringing her hand to his forehead. “I promised you that you would not have to leave Hogwarts,” Snape says again, closing his eyes. “And I regret not being able to fulfill that promise.”

An odd feeling washes over Darcy then, the desire to comfort him. “There was nothing you could have done,” she whispers. “It was only a matter of time before I was ousted, and . . . at least we had months before it happened.” She pulls her hand away from Snape’s, resting it in her lap. “How are the students? It’s only been a day and I miss them already.”

“Complaining,” Snape tells her with a mirthless half-laugh, “like the brats they are, asking me when you’re coming back.”

“If you were nicer, maybe they would adjust just fine to it being just you again,” Darcy smiles.

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Darcy.”

“I’m not telling you,” she says coolly. “I’m only making a suggestion.”

“You were soft with the first years.”

“Would it kill you to take a lesson from me, after all the lessons you’ve given me?” Darcy asks, raising her eyebrows. When he doesn’t answer right away, she knows better than to press him for one. She watches his eyes dart around the room conspicuously, lingering on the photograph on the nightstand of she, Harry, Sirius, and Lupin at Christmas before fixing upon a pile of books stacked on the ground. “Will you miss me?”

Snape gives her an irritated expression. “Don’t be stupid.” He purses his thin lips together, looking mildly uncomfortable. “Lonely without Lupin here, isn’t it?”

Darcy frowns at him. “You think I only care about you when Remus isn’t around?” she whispers, feeling slightly affronted. He looks away sheepishly. “You really believe that?”

When he doesn’t answer, Darcy sighs, getting to her feet, but Snape reaches out for her with cat-like reflexes, catching her hand. For a moment, Snape looks ready to speak, albeit nervous and awkward, but he seems to swallow his words. Darcy pulls her hand away from him again.

“Is there . . . _anything_ you want to say to me, Professor Snape?” she asks breathlessly, wondering if now will be the moment he swallows his pride and tells her he cares about her. Darcy isn’t sure if the words would bring her comfort or not, but to hear them spoken now, during such an intimate moment—to hear them spoken so genuinely, not forced or in rebuttal . . .

Snape looks as if he’s in pain, his face contorted, as if his lack of answering is eating away at him from the inside. Darcy isn’t sure if he’s going to say anything at all, but if he is, it’s too late, for Sirius opens the door wildly, as if in the hopes to catch them at something. Looking disheveled, his chest heaving, Sirius looks Darcy directly in the eyes, seemingly trying to block out Snape completely.

“Remus is back.”

Darcy’s heart begins to race. She’s been wishing for this, waiting so impatiently for this—and yet she can’t help but feel Lupin’s arrival is at, quite possibly, the most inopportune time. The choice is an easy one for her—to spend time alone in her bedroom with Snape, or to throw herself into Lupin’s arms, kiss him over and over again until every inch of his face has been touched by her lips? Even if Snape were to say the words (and she knows for a fact that, with Sirius still standing in the doorway, he would never)— _I love you, I care about you, please stay_ —Darcy wouldn’t stay.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes to Snape, turning to follow Sirius out of the room, sprinting down the stairs. Sirius pulls her into the drawing room by the hand, where Lupin’s reclining awkwardly on one of the sofas. He doesn’t look surprised to see Darcy at all, and she’s quite grateful Sirius has explained already, for she isn’t ready to talk about the events of last night with Lupin.

But standing there, looking at him, it’s hard to believe he’s only been gone for a few weeks. His left eye is swollen, bruised badly, but clearly a few days old. The coarse hair on his face is patchy and uneven, as if he’d taken scissors to it, and his shoulders are so broad now that his sweater strains slightly against the muscle. There’s a hardened look to his eyes, one that she’d not noticed when she said goodbye to him, making him look meaner, more serious, and the lack of color about him makes her nervous. On instinct, Darcy takes a hesitant step back at the sight of him looking so _wolfish_ , his jaw set and eyes following her as she decides to move toward him again.

“Remus,” she whispers, glancing quickly at Sirius. “Are you all right?”

Lupin looks at Sirius for a moment. “Leave us, Padfoot,” he says, but his tone is not light or casual like it is when he usually reverts to using Sirius’ nickname.

Sirius seems to recognize it as a command, casting a wary and suspicious look at Darcy before obeying, closing the door behind him. Darcy’s heart starts to beat very quickly within her chest, and panic floods her. _He’s angry about what I’ve done_ , she thinks. _He’s angry that I got caught._

He continues to look down at her curiously, and then leans forward and helps her up on the sofa beside him. “It’s been a long few weeks,” Lupin says finally, much softer than she’d expected. “Is it true? All of it?”

“Yes,” Darcy says, her hands in her lap, looking down at them. “All of it.”

“Look at me.” It’s another command, albeit a gentle one. “Look at me like I don’t frighten you.”

She does, meeting his eyes with a quiet dignity. As soon as Darcy looks at him, Lupin’s eyes soften. “You don’t frighten me.” Darcy exhales through her long nose. “Come upstairs. I can fix your black eye for you best I can. I’ll get you something to drink.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

Darcy frowns, blinking in surprise. “What?” she asks, standing up and offering him her hand. “Come on, I’ve got some wine.”

Lupin doesn’t take it. Darcy lowers her hand back to her side.

“Who gave you the black eye, Remus?” Darcy asks again, softly.

“Doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Matters to me. Are you going to tell me what you’ve been up to?”

“You wouldn’t want to hear it.”

Darcy sighs again. “Then why have you brought it up?”

Lupin licks his lips, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “I can’t stop thinking about it, can I?”

“Thinking about what?” Darcy snaps, tiring of his vague hints and irritating manner. This has not been the homecoming she had hoped for, and she feels half ashamed of herself for thinking it would be as romantic.

“I’ve failed,” he says simply. “I’ve failed to do what Dumbledore wanted me to do. I had one job—to earn the werewolves’ trust—not even their open support, just their trust—and I have failed . . . spectacularly.”

“What are you talking about?” Darcy lowers herself slowly back onto the sofa. “Remus . . . what have you done?”

“You knew . . . Gemma told you, months ago, that werewolves like Greyback will never see you as anything but a piece of meat.” Lupin scoffs, but it’s out of disgust and anger. “This particular pack were savages, every last one of them, glad to voice to me their horrific desires for you.”

A thrill of horror shoots through Darcy at these words.

“My final _test_ . . . to prove to them that I was one of them, that I had turned my back on society,” Lupin continues. “‘Bring us the girl’ he said. ‘If you are one of us, then she is nothing to you.’”

“They want to . . . turn me?”

“Ironic that being turned into a werewolf would be the best possible outcome for you in that situation.” Lupin scowls, his face darkening. “As if I would ever subject you to that fate. You, Darcy . . . still so innocent, so young, so kind. I can’t think of anyone who would deserve that fate less. And to be executed by my own kind.”

“Those people are not like you,” Darcy asserts, her voice growing louder, more confident.

“They’re hardly people,” Lupin snaps, quieting her immediately. “They’re animals, monsters . . . to think that I am associated with creatures like those, and to look at you and see this embodiment of . . . all the things I will never be deserving of.”

“Remus,” Darcy replies, finding it difficult to breathe. “Are you . . . upset that you couldn’t find it in you to quite literally throw me to the wolves?”

“ _Christ_ —no!” Lupin retorts, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “I just spent weeks listening to the scum of the earth describe to me the gruesome things they would do to you in the hopes of getting a reaction out of me, I turned away _gladly_ when they asked me to bring you to them despite knowing I was walking away from my mission, and I come home to you, so beautiful and so loving and so kind and I don’t even want to touch you, to _taint_ you, because that’s all I am—those beasts, those brutes and savages . . . I would _never_ allow them to touch you, and yet . . . _I’m_ one of them . . .”

“Remus, you’ve just been away too long. You just need to . . . clear your head.” Darcy inches closer to him. “You shouldn’t listen to what they say. You’re better than them.”

“Am I? They aren’t the ones who ruined your shoulder. _I_ did that.”

Darcy falters, trying to compose herself for his sake. “Come on, you’re filthy, let me run you a bath and I’ll make you dinner.”

Lupin looks down at his dirt and sweat stained clothes as if only just noticing the state of them. “It’s been a long journey home.” He determinedly looks away from her. “And I come home to find out you refused to bargain with the Minister of Magic regarding a prison sentence because you didn’t want to see me in Azkaban.”

“We’re both safe now,” Darcy tells him. “Remus, none of this matters right now. You’re home—you’re safe, and you won’t ever have to go back there.”

He turns his head slowly to look at her, his stony expression completely changed into one of pure panic, of desperation, the look of a crazed man. “You should have let them take me, Darcy. You should have told them where I was . . . have I not created enough major difficulties for you by just being with you? Knowing you?”

“Remus, stop it!” Darcy hisses, and Lupin falls silent, staring at her with wide, incredulous eyes. “You’re talking nonsense . . . you need sleep, and a hot bath, and food. It’s up to you to decide in what order.”

“A bath . . . sleep . . . I hope I’m not asking too much, Darcy, but could you bring my dinner up to my bedroom?”

“Sure,” Darcy answers gently, surprised by his sudden change in demeanor. “Gemma’s going to be stopping by tonight. Would you like me to wake you when she gets here?”

“No,” Lupin replies in a defiant tone. “No, don’t tell anyone I’m here quite yet. I need some time to think.”

“Are you sure that will be good for you?” Darcy asks, lifting one of her eyebrows. “Seems like thinking is only making it worse.”

“If I don’t think about it, I’ll go mad,” Lupin tells her. “This past mission has been . . . extremely taxing, more so than the others . . . I just need to be alone, please . . .”

“Okay,” Darcy says. She shrugs, clearing her throat and tucking her hair behind her ears. “I’ll bring dinner up in a little.”

“Thank you.”

When he doesn’t move to get up, Darcy gets to her feet again and reaches for her hand. This time, Lupin takes it, allowing Darcy to pull him gently up from the sofa. Darcy looks up at him, looking him over carefully, examining the purple bruise underneath his eye, the tightness to his lips, the angry glint in his eyes. She asks to help run him a bath, but he politely refuses, and Darcy instead takes refuge in the kitchen, where she digs around for something to cook for dinner, sharing nervous looks with Sirius, who’s already started on a bottle of brandy at the table. He wastes no time in pouring a glass for her, as well.

“Is Snape gone?” she asks quietly after thanking him, taking a long drink of brandy. It’s old, clearly having been opened for too long.

“Thankfully. Nearly ran out of here when you came down to see Remus.” Sirius narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What were you talking about in there?”

“His mission.”

“Not Remus,” Sirius spits. “Snape.”

“Nothing,” she lies boldly, not convincing Sirius. Darcy lowers her glass and rolls her eyes. “I just wanted to apologize to him.”

Sirius traces the lip of the glass with his index finger lightly. “I’m going to ask you this one time,” he begins slowly, “and I want you to answer me with nothing but the truth. Has Snape ever tried anything with you?”

“No,” Darcy says, this time more confidently. She makes sure to meet Sirius’ eyes this time. The last thing she wants to do right now, however, is discuss Snape when there is something more pressing on her mind. “I’m worried about Remus. I don’t want him going back to the werewolves.”

“Dumbledore isn’t here anymore to ask him to,” Sirius says, almost relieved to seize on the subject. His anger at Snape suddenly dissipates. “What did he say to you?”

“What did he say to _you_?”

Sirius pauses, and Darcy hears the pipes working in the walls and ceiling, letting her know that Lupin has started running the bath. “Nothing really,” he admits with a shrug. “Wanted to know what had happened to you. He saw the story in the _Prophet_ this morning. When I told him everything Kingsley told me, he just looked . . . scary . . . scary for Moony, you know? And then he told me he wanted to see you, so I went to get you. What did he say?”

“A bunch of rubbish,” Darcy says, feeling it’s quite the truth. She sits down across from Sirius, sighing heavily. “You know how he is. Tell him he’s a monster, and he wastes no time in believing it. The last time he came back, he spoke of his being no more than a monster, belonging with the werewolves. This time he spoke of the werewolves using what they know of me to get to him. He walked away because he refused to bring me to them. He was worried that by touching me, he’d taint me. He thinks that’s all he is—nothing more than an animal.” She leans forward, feeling so sorry for Lupin she could cry. “What happens if he has to go back? I don’t think he’d come home at all next time, whether it be his choice or not.”

“What do you mean? The werewolves were using what they know of you? What did they say to him? Did he tell you?”

Darcy gives her godfather a knowing look over the table. “Come on, Sirius,” she says quietly, a nervous smile tugging at her lips. “You read the same letters I did.”

Sirius pales, clutching his glass so tightly it’s like to explode in his fist.

“He’s going mad,” Darcy whispers.

After a moment of composing himself, Sirius leans back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. “I’ve always felt it a curse to be born with such a good heart,” he says quietly, and a crease appears between his dark eyebrows, as if he’s deep in thought. “It was only talk. He shouldn’t have let it bother him. They only said those things to get a rise out of him.”

Darcy thinks Sirius is attempting to convince himself of this truth, as well. But she finds it quite hard to believe it herself. She remembers her own reactions to such insults about Lupin—when people had called for his death, for such hatred and prejudice . . . the words had always lit a fire in her, and can she really blame Lupin for being in such a worrying state after having to listen to—possibly— _worse_ things said about her? Maybe she should be flattered that these things have affected him so, but it’s hard to feel flattered at all after seeing the way he’d spoken and reacted to her.

“If Remus didn’t have a good heart, he would have handed me over to the werewolves without a second thought,” Darcy says finally, unconsciously chewing her fingernails. “Is that what you would have had him do?”

“No,” Sirius answers quickly, too serious for her liking. “But good hearts don’t win wars.” He takes another hasty sip of brandy. “They knew he wouldn’t do it. They knew Remus would never deliver you to them. That’s why they asked.”

“I can’t stand seeing him like this,” Darcy confesses, a heartfelt confession that moves even herself. “Ever since I’ve known him, he’s always cared for me, always been so strong when I needed him to be. And now . . . how could he think he’s like them?”

There’s a sudden crash overhead, and both Darcy and Sirius leap to their feet. With a very solemn and grave nod from Sirius, Darcy makes her way upstairs. The door to the bathroom is locked and she wandless, but she pulls a bobby pin out of her hair and unlocks expertly it with ease. The door swings open and she hurries inside, closing it behind her.

Lying on the floor, stark naked, the bath overflowing with water onto his, is Lupin, groaning. The sight of him scares her, and after turning the water off, Darcy helps him sit up, carefully examining his back. There are fresh wounds on his back, wounds that don’t look to have been taken care of or looked after, wounds that make it seem as if he’s been whipped raw. On the inside of his right thigh are three long gouge marks similar to the ones on her shoulder where it seems that claws have gotten to him—whether his own or another’s, she can’t be sure—but these at least looked to have been sealed badly and clumsily.

Darcy helps him into the bathtub without speaking a word, and when he splashes in, more water spills over the edges. When the hot water touches his wounds, he cries out, grabbing hold of Darcy’s arm and squeezing. “It’s all right,” Darcy breathes, helping him to sit up and let the air touch the lashes on his back. “How old are these?”

“A few days,” he says through gritted teeth, hissing when Darcy’s fingertips brush over them.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asks, not meaning to sound as harsh as the words do. “If you don’t treat these, they’re going to get infected.”

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I have my potions things here now. I’m not as good as Gemma, but I can help, if you’ll let me.”

Lupin closes his eyes and gives a weak nod. Darcy smiles weakly, despite him not being able to see it. She leaves him in the bath and fumbles through her ingredients kit, finding nothing that she knows will help heal them. In the top drawer of her dresser, however, are a few things of Gemma’s that she’s left at the house just in case. Vials of potions are all labeled with the date they were brewed, and there are a few pastes and poultices, as well. Recognizing a few of them from the last time Lupin had returned from a mission, Darcy takes them and returns to the bathroom, locking herself inside with him.

At first, she isn’t sure if he’s asleep or not when she settles behind him, but as Darcy begins to clean the days old blood from his back and washes the gruesome looking wounds on his back, Lupin tenses and fidgets in the water, snarling at her like a rabid animal, his eyes snapping open. “Stop,” he growls at her. “Stop it—you’re hurting me—”

“I’m only trying to help,” Darcy protests.

“Then don’t,” he snaps, looking away sheepishly after the words leave his lips.

“And leave the wounds to fester?”

Lupin grumbles under his breath, much like Sirius might. It’s almost endearing when he does it, however. But eventually, Lupin sits up again and takes the pain dutifully, allowing Darcy to clean the wounds and attempt to seal and cure them with what she’s found in Gemma’s collection. The paste eases the pain, it seems, even if it ends up washing off in the bath water. And when Darcy finishes scrubbing all the dirt off his skin, leaving it pink and glowing and cleaner than she’s possibly ever seen it, she gathers all the things necessary to shave the unruly beard off his face. Darcy works slowly, blushing when she catches him staring at her, golden eyes following her every move. When she finishes, it’s look looking at a different person—his face cleanly shaven, his wet hair pushed back out of his eyes, some color in his cheeks. He looks less wolfish now and more of the man Darcy loves and admires.

“I can see you again,” Darcy teases, a small smile on her face.

“You like it like this?” Lupin asks with a scoff, rubbing at his exposed chin as if hoping the hair will still be there. “I look half a boy without my beard.”

“I like you both with and without one,” she answers patiently.

Lupin is quiet for a moment, touching the top of the now murky water distractedly. Darcy wishes he’d get out, but he doesn’t seem ready to move anywhere. Instead, he looks at her with his jaw set. “How are you feeling?” he asks in a whisper. “About being back?”

“Don’t,” she says, frowning. “Don’t worry about me.”

He smiles, laughing softly to himself, and the sight is so sweet. “I always worry about you.”

Darcy smiles back again, shaking her head, pushing herself to her feet to grab him a towel. His clean clothes are folded on the sink, and draping the towel over her arm, she holds a hand out for him to take. Lupin hesitates, looking warily at her hand, as if it’s a trap.

“Darcy,” he says, swallowing hard. “You don’t have to take care of me.”

“Of course I don’t. But I want to.” She beckons at him with her long fingers. “Come on. Get out of that filthy water before you dirty yourself again, would you?”

He obeys this time, but Darcy rather wishes he hadn’t. The sight of him standing there in all of his splendor, the water dripping down his broad chest and muscular shoulders and his toned stomach makes Darcy feel a stirring in her core that she wishes desperately would go away. She knows Lupin catches her looking up and down before blushing and turning completely.

“Seems like you’ve got everything under control now,” she tells him breathlessly, looking over her shoulder once more to see him wrap the towel around his waist, his hair heavy with water and falling back into his face again.

“Don’t go,” he breathes. “Please.”

The words are not spoken huskily, or with any indication that he plans on doing anything—but they’re desperate and pleading and sad, and Darcy turns around to face him again, staring determinedly into his eyes. He only stands there, looking pathetic and exhausted and weary and beyond his years, but Darcy moves forward anyway to wrap her arms around him, to finally allow herself to be grateful that he is home, that he is safe, that he has come back to her. Lupin’s hands hover above her skin, hesitant to touch her, his arms hesitant to hold her.

“I can’t,” he rasps, lowering his hands back to his sides, not pushing her away from him, even as Darcy nuzzles into his damp chest. “Darcy, I care about you far too much to burden you any further.”

“You have never burdened me,” she murmurs against his skin, still unbelieving that he’s here, that he’s real. “You can’t really believe that.”

His fingers align with the scars that, while not visible, he knows are there on her shoulder, knowing their exact location by memory alone. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I hate it when you say that.” Lupin lifts his hand from her shoulder, gently pushing her away from him. Flushing, Darcy takes a step back, looking at her feet. “I don’t understand how you could even begin to think that, unless you refuse to see the truth. I’m dangerous, Darcy. Had Severus not come for you that night, I would have done much, much worse to you. I would have bitten you, or ripped your throat out.”

She doesn’t know if it’s the bitterness in his tone, or the sight of his wounds, or the events from the previous evening, but Darcy starts to cry again, ashamed and humiliated and feeling no more than a child. She thought that Lupin would be glad to see her, but instead he’s come home injured and unwilling to even touch her, afraid that some part of him will hurt her. And at the sight of her tears, something seems to change within Lupin—his face softens, and his entire body seems to relax. He takes a step closer to her.

“Go away,” she cries through her fingers. “I’ve waited weeks for you to come back—I’m in hiding now for refusing to give you and Sirius up, and you coming home was everything I needed to make me feel better and it’s like you’re not even happy to see me—”

“I _am_ happy to see you,” Lupin replies, throwing his head back and groaning. “Darcy, you’ve no idea what these last few weeks have been like for me. You’ve no idea the things that I’ve heard, the threats that were issued towards you, and it drove me _mad_ , and—I would do anything to keep you from that fate. I would do _anything_ to ensure that no harm would ever come to you, and—”

“You’re not being noble, you’re being _stupid_ ,” Darcy says firmly, lowering her hands from her face. “You always act like I don’t know what you are, as if I haven’t seen you at your worst, as if I haven’t _experienced_ what you are. Even after everything that happened, I still loved you, I still wanted you, I still needed you—” She gives him a hard shove in the chest, nearly melting at the contact of her palms against his permanently warm skin. “And you pretend and act as if though that will ever change. As if one day I’ll wake up and think that I won’t want you to kiss me just because you’re a little different once a month.”

Lupin is quiet, looking at her with a disbelieving expression on his face. Darcy holds her hands up, wanting to touch him, to shake him, but then thinking better of it.

“I know that what you are doing is not easy,” she finishes. “I cannot even imagine what it must be like to live amongst them, to have to be one of them, and I know coming home must be very intimidating, and I don’t mind if you need reminded that you’re better than them, I don’t mind reminding you that I don’t think any differently of you or a reminder that I will still love you during the full moon and I will still love you in the morning, when you wake up a man again. But please don’t pretend any differently. Please don’t pretend I have ever loved or would ever love you less because of what you are.”

Humiliated when he still doesn’t answer, Darcy wraps her arms around herself.

“Darcy?”

“What?”

Lupin licks his lips. “I will never let them have you. Do you believe me?”

“I believe you.”

He moves forward, his fingers curling around her upper arm gently. Lupin’s eyes rove her face for a moment before he leans in to kiss her very softly upon the lips, a curious kiss, a hesitant one. It reminds her of the kiss she’d given him when she had gone to see him in his room at Hogwarts all those years ago now . . . has it been that long? It seems a lifetime ago Darcy had gone to him at his own request, had kissed him, had made love to him for the first time. When Lupin pulls away from her, it seems he’s waiting for a reaction, expecting a negative one, or another reprimand. But Darcy has nothing more to say to him now, feeling rather as if he understands her perfectly without her having to even speak.

“What do you want for dinner?” she asks quietly, drying her eyes.

“Surprise me,” he answers, turning away to grab his clothes. “And don’t worry about bringing it upstairs. I’ll join you.”

“You should be resting—”

Lupin turns his head to give her a sideways look over his shoulder, speaking in a tone that brooks no argument. “I said I’ll join you.”


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I’ve been so sick lately 😴😴😴 Please accept an extra long chapter as my apology

“Darcy, I’m talking to you.”

She lifts her eyes to find Lupin looking right at her from across the many plates and dishes half-full of food, his eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline, his foot still rubbing against hers beneath the table. The rough and scratchy feel of his worn and thin sock against her bare foot sends shivers down her spine, the innocent contact clouding her mind. Gemma and Emily had spared her explanations by talking loudly over everyone, but now they’re quiet, chewing in Darcy’s ears and looking expectantly at her.

It’s been an awkward dinner. Darcy had thought, upon finding Emily and Gemma in the kitchen, everyone’s spirits would be lifted somewhat. She had hoped that, with the promise of friendly conversation, Lupin might remember that he’s surrounded by friends and people who love him, but there is still a hardened feel to him that Darcy dislikes, as if he still thinks he must be reserved and closed off. His remarks are sharp and laced with venom, and everytime he speaks, it seems to set Emily on edge, her face red with the effort to keep herself from snapping. Darcy is grateful that Emily has found it in her heart to hold back, especially as Lupin has only just returned home, but it is a trying task. He seems to take pleasure in making everyone squirm, making everyone uncomfortable, including Sirius, who tells him off several times for being so cold. It makes Darcy very uneasy to see Lupin act in such a way—in a way that so differs from his usual ease, lacking a smile reserved just for her, or the warmth in his eyes when their eyes meet across the room.

“I’m sorry,” Darcy says, blushing furiously, looking back down at her plate. She pushes her food around lazily, not feeling very hungry. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

“I thought not,” Lupin replies, and his voice is harsher than usual, but he continues to brush his foot against hers, letting her know he won’t hold it against her. “I asked if you were going to play us the piano after dinner. I want to hear Moonlight Sonata, unless anyone else has other requests.”

Darcy isn’t sure if it’s sheer hunger or her bitterness at the way Lupin had spoken earlier, or her anger at the situation with Umbridge and Snape, but she snaps, “Yes, and while we’re at it, why don’t you stuff me in a moth-eaten dress two sizes too small and I’ll recite you all poetry while you drink tea and eat biscuits around the fire?”

Lupin looks less than amused by her outburst, and he rests his foot atop hers, as if hoping to trap it. Darcy doesn’t pull away, but doesn’t falter when she looks into his face for a long time. He traces his teeth with his tongue, taking a long drink, finally shrugging his shoulders coolly, looking away from her. “I quite like it when you play the piano and recite poetry,” he replies, and the silence that follows is deafening.

Confused, slightly shaken, Gemma and Emily exchange wary and rather uncomfortable looks before continuing on with their meal. Sirius looks quickly back and forth between Darcy and Lupin before engaging Gemma in friendly conversation, to which she eagerly latches on. Yet Darcy feels sorry for snapping at Lupin almost instantly, rubbing her foot against his to make it clear she hadn’t meant anything by it.

“The meat is tough,” Lupin muses, putting his fork and knife down and wiping at his mouth with his cloth napkin. “Don’t you think, Darcy?”

Gemma, who had cooked (albeit with magic) bristles beside Darcy, glowering at Lupin. To Darcy’s surprise, a flush creeps up the back of her exposed neck, a very foreign sight. “I see your prolonged absence hasn’t improved your manners any,” she hisses, standing up and taking his plate away as Lupin goes to eat from it. He sighs dramatically. “If you’re not going to be grateful, then you can starve. Maybe Darcy could give you etiquette lessons, or maybe she could teach you to cook so I can criticize you all night.”

There’s another heavy silence that follows as Gemma nearly throws Lupin’s plate onto the counter before resuming her seat beside Darcy, acting as though nothing has happened. Darcy clears her throat, looking up, glad to see that Sirius is looking just as uncomfortable. She turns to Gemma. “I—I don’t think the meat is tough,” Darcy mutters sheepishly, despite feeling very much that Gemma could have cooked the meat a little less.

She’s sure that Gemma sees right through her feeble lie, but Gemma smiles at Darcy anyway. “Thank you, Darcy.”

It’s quiet again, and Lupin makes a show of retrieving his plate from the counter. For a moment, the only sound is the clinking of cutlery, the popping of a cork as Sirius decides it’s time to open a bottle of wine, the chinking of glasses being set in front of everyone. Emily thanks Sirius warmly, looking directly at Lupin over her wine glass for a moment.

“So . . . what do you all make of the Wizengamot’s nominee for new Chief Warlock?” she asks, looking around with a smile on her face.

“He’s a friend of Lucius Malfoy’s,” Gemma answers, tearing apart some bread with her fingers, not bothering to look up. “They’re just assembling the most biased Wizengamot they can so they can give Darcy and Dumbledore the most biased sentence they can.”

“Hey, Emily,” Sirius says, and Emily’s head turns at breakneck speed at the mere sound of her name leaving his lips. “Loved that article you wrote a few weeks back . . . I forgot to tell you. The comparing of the new brooms. It’s been years since I’ve ridden one. I regret not taking Harry’s Firebolt for a ride before sending it to him.”

“Thank you! It was so fun to write, seeing as I got to ride each one of them,” Emily says, and then with a slightly pink tint to her cheeks, she adds, “I’m afraid of heights, though, so I didn’t go very high or very far, but I got a good feel for each of them. The Firebolt, of course, was just amazing—felt like it was taking _me_ for a ride. And I was able to ride on one of the prototypes for the new Air Wave Gold. I think that one may have been my favorite. It was definitely comfortable, and it didn’t shake like the Cleansweep brooms seem to when they reach a certain speed. They aren’t supposed to be ready for sale for another year or so.”

“As riveting as your reviews were, I think I rather like your other articles,” Sirius tells her, smiling to indicate no disrespect. “You have a way with the truth that other reporters don’t.”

“Maybe you could convince Cuffe to put me back on the important stories,” Emily teases, blushing harder when Sirius laughs. “He doesn’t seem to see my honesty the same way you do. In fact, he’s told me several times that it’s quite reckless to be publishing things like that with my becoming an Auror.” Emily’s smile flickers slightly and she fixes her eyes upon her plate. “I’d leave the _Prophet_ if it hadn’t meant so much to mum. She was a Quidditch contributor.”

Sirius smiles weakly, almost apologetically, in return, and the kitchen falls again into an awkward silence. “Gemma,” Sirius tries, leaning slightly forward towards her. “Emily told me that _Witch Weekly_ was interested in interviewing you in regards to your potion.”

“I’m not interested in giving _Witch Weekly_ an interview,” Gemma replies coldly.

“Why not? Is it not you leaving old copies around the house?” Sirius asks, frowning, his eyebrows knitted together, looking completely baffled. “I thought you’d be excited about it.”

“I’m not interested in associating my name with werewolves at the moment, and I’m not interested in giving an interview to a magazine that’s been sexualizing Darcy and writing about her as if she were an adult since she was eleven-years-old.” Gemma looks up, her dark eyes blazing. Emily nods her full approval of this answer. “However, since they’ve stopped writing about her, I find the magazine much more enjoyable. I’d rather choke on my own vomit than have my name printed in that damn magazine.”

Sirius exhales loudly, running a hand through his dark hair. “Forget that I asked.” His eyes meet Darcy’s for a split second, which is all he needs, it seems, to regain his stride. “More wine, Darcy?” He flashes her a winning smile, and Darcy takes as a sign of solidarity.

“Please,” she replies, holding out her glass for him to refill.

“Should you be drinking, Darcy?” Lupin asks, and once again, his voice overpowers everyone else’s. His tone is not unkind, but it certainly is not innocent.

“I don’t think you have any right to comment on Darcy’s drinking habits,” Emily snaps, and Lupin looks pleased with himself for getting a reaction out of her.

Darcy blushes, looking down into her lap, feeling so humiliated she could cry. This isn’t at all how she’d wanted her first dinner at number twelve, Grimmauld Place as a full time resident to go. She wanted smiles and laughter—she wanted Gemma to make Lupin warm around the collar with throwaway, good-natured teasing; Sirius and Lupin to tell stories from their time at Hogwarts; Emily to fill the silences with talk about her Auror tests and training. She wanted drunken gossip and the feeling of being apart of a real family, not this sad scene before her. Darcy would rather be anywhere but here right now, at this table—she’d rather be at Hogwarts, in fact. Maybe she would have taken dinner alone tonight, sitting before her fire with a book in one hand and a fork in the other, a glass of wine to treat herself beside a stack of unfinished work being put off for later.

But this . . . why would anyone choose this over Hogwarts? A reserved, defensive, and cold Lupin, a biting and irritable Gemma, an awkward Emily. Holding her face in her hands, her elbows upon the table, everyone continues to bicker around Darcy. Sirius has joined in now, chastising Lupin (somewhat weakly, as if his heart isn’t really in it) for being so cold and uncaring, and Emily wastes no time in jumping on Lupin’s case either, and everyone explodes when Gemma finally decides it’s time for her to add her voice to the fray. No one even seems to notice or care about the distress their argument is causing Darcy. No one seems to notice or care that she’s begun crying into her palms, only embarrassing herself further. Part of her wants to just walk out, for surely no one would even notice if she quietly left, not wanting to argue, to upset herself further. The day has already been far too long, far too depressing, and far too lonely, and this only makes it worse.

“I do something nice, and this is where it gets me! I’m never doing _anything_ for _anyone_ ever again—”

“—it’s not even your house, no one asked you to be here—”

“—it’s not your house either, and since it’s Darcy’s now, too, I can come and go as I please—”

“—the dinner wasn’t even for you, it was for Darcy—”

“—need help getting that stick out your arse?”

“—uncalled for—”

“—eat a dick, Lupin—”

“—easy enough, he’s already got one shoved so far up his—”

“—is this really appropriate—”

“—hark who’s talking, Sirius, you’re the biggest dick of them all—”

“—what did _I_ do?”

Darcy jumps to her feet, red in the face and puffy eyed. “Will you all just _shut up_? You’re all insufferable and you’ve ruined everything!” The kitchen falls deathly silent immediately, and everyone’s eyes snap to her face. Breathing rather heavily, her heart racing, feeling very on the spot, Darcy swallows and says, “I’m going to bed.”

Even as she turns and crosses the threshold, the silence holds, and she privately hopes that her outburst has left them all feeling ashamed of themselves. As Darcy starts up the stairs, she can hear two people clearing the table without speaking, and when she reaches her bedroom and locks the door, she can hear nothing at all. She’s grateful for that much, at least, immediately falling onto her bed. The tears come and flow so naturally that Darcy barely takes notice. So much has happened in the past twenty-four hours that she can hardly wrap her head around it, and knowing that she may be shut up in this house with people who can’t get along drives her crazy. She wonders how many nights they’ve spent before at each other’s throats, wonders if everyone is going a little crazy with everything not seeming to go in their favor. It’s clear the pressure of the war is getting to everyone, but Darcy just wanted one night at her new home to spend with people she loves, to remind her that it won’t be so bad.

_It’s better than Azkaban_ , she repeats to herself. _It’s better than Privet Drive_.

To keep her hands and mind occupied, Darcy goes through the things Snape had brought back from Hogwarts—the rest of her clothes and her robes are tucked neatly inside, a few pictures that she’d left in her room, her camera and all the books that she’d placed on the shelves, all the miscellaneous pieces of parchment that had be lying around. Max’s empty cage is with her things, her cauldron, still slightly stained on the inside from the last potion she’d made.

Seizing on the opportunity, Darcy prepares her cauldron for cleaning. From her wardrobe, she withdraws all the solutions and materials that Snape had lying around his office that Darcy had always asked for. Rags and bristly and wiry sponges, polish and sand and salt. Snape had once told her salt was best on pewter cauldrons, and she’s never used anything else since. Everything is slightly used, and Snape had always offered to get her new things when she’d asked him for them, but Darcy doesn’t mind secondhand things. For someone who has so much money sitting in a vault at Gringotts—her inheritance from her parents plus what she’s made at Hogwarts—Darcy sometimes feels she is far too used to secondhand things. Seating herself cross-legged in the middle of her bedroom—her bedroom (why this fact hits her so hard now is a mystery to her)—Darcy begins to slowly, almost lovingly, clean every bit of her cauldron she can get to with a wet rag. She barely gets five minutes into her work when someone knocks on the door.

“Darcy, can we come in?” Gemma asks quietly.

“We’re really sorry,” comes Emily’s sweet voice.

“Come on, we were all prats,” Gemma says again. “Even you’ve been known to be a prat from time to time, Darcy. Open up so Em can apologize in earnest, would you?”

Half-distracted, Darcy reaches over for her wand, lying on the bed, gives it a wave, and the door opens of its own accord. Gemma and Emily promptly walk in and close it again, sitting on the bed and watching Darcy closely.

“We’re really sorry, Darcy, honest,” Emily frowns, pulling her knees up to her chest. Gemma opens a nearby book, lying back and hiding her face from view. “We’re all just a little worried, is all.”

Darcy scrubs harder on a spot on her cauldron that already shines, partially reflecting the red of her hair. “It’s fine,” she says, not wanting to argue anymore. “Just . . . lay off Remus, would you? He only got back today and he’s going through enough without you two taking the piss out of him.”

Emily scoffs, but Darcy can’t say she’s surprised she’s suddenly decided to take the defensive. “That doesn’t give him the right to be rude without expecting consequences.”

Still scrubbing, Darcy answers, “And when I see him again, I’ll chastise him for taking the piss out of you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gemma says suddenly. “Sirius has already given Lupin a piece of his mind.”

“You shouldn’t even be mad at Sirius,” Emily cuts in again. “He didn’t do anything. He was being really sweet, and—”

“Em, accept the fact that Sirius doesn’t want you and move on.” Gemma closes the book in her hands, replacing it with another one. “Darcy, if I tell you a line of a poem, or as much as I can, are you able to tell me what it is?”

“I thought you hated when I recite poetry to you.” Darcy cocks an eyebrow.

“Yeah, but this one I really liked. So—will you be able to recognize it?”

Bewildered, Darcy looks up from her cauldron. “I don’t have a collection of every poem ever written in my head, you know.”

“It’s one Lupin read to you a while ago,” Gemma continues. “But I’ve no idea where to even begin looking.”

“Why didn’t you just ask him?” Darcy asks.

“Because the second he realizes I’ve actually enjoyed a poem, it’s all over. The façade I’ve worked so hard to maintain over the years will come crumbling down.” She smiles, looking up from her book. “I’d never hear the end of it. So can you try?”

“Sure, I suppose,” Darcy says, lowering her head and cleaning the bottom of her cauldron with some salt and her wet rag. She waits for a moment, but Gemma doesn’t speak. “I’m listening, Gemma. What are the lines?”

Gemma eyes her beadily from atop the bed. “I think it went . . . ‘You stand at the blackboard, daddy, in the picture I have of you, a cleft in your chin instead of your foot but no less a devil for that, no not any less the black man who bit my pretty red heart in two.’” She raises her eyebrows. “Do you remember it?”

Darcy nods. “‘I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die and get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.’” She looks up again and points at the top of the dresser, where there are three stacks of poetry books. “ _Daddy_. Look over there, with the other Sylvia Plath book.”

“You’re a genius, you are,” Gemma grins, sliding from the bed to sort through the poetry books. “How do you remember all that nonsense, Darcy? I bet you could memorize every poem in the world. Go on, give us one.”

Darcy hesitates, not really wanting to recite poetry, but wanting to appease her friends. She decides on one at random. “‘If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues’,” she begins, breaking up the matter on the bottom of her cauldron. “‘My friend, you would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory, the old Lie: _Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_.’”

“It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country,” Gemma says. When Emily gives her a puzzled look, she elaborates. “I know Latin, believe it or not. A pureblood thing, I suppose.”

“Why would it matter if you’re a pureblood that you know Latin?” Emily asks, narrowing her eyebrows.

Gemma chuckles, flipping through the pages of the book Darcy had pointed out. “Dunno. Seems the kind of thing purebloods might do, wouldn’t it? Mum hired me a tutor before I went to Hogwarts. Learned all kinds of things.”

“Like what?” Emily says again, sprawling onto her stomach. “Did they teach you magic?”

“No, of course not,” Gemma answers patiently. “I had Hogwarts to look forward to for that. He taught me Muggle stuff, I suppose. Latin and mathematics, sometimes we looked at the stars and read books together. Old books, Muggle literature, mostly.”

“Your parents hired a tutor to teach you Muggle things?” Darcy says, surprised at this information.

“The bloke was Muggleborn and his parents were school teachers at some fancy school, so he was a prime candidate for the job, wasn’t he?” Gemma chuckles. “Mum vouched for him, and no one questioned him any further. I had such a crush on him too. Couldn’t have been older than forty, such pretty brown hair, so well-spoken and so educated. Haven’t seen him since I was ten.”

As Gemma continues to flip through the poetry book, Darcy watches her warily. “Stay away from Remus,” she says suddenly, making Gemma laugh.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t admire him from afar sometimes,” Gemma confesses, marking a page in the book and turning around, and Emily looks horrified. “When he bends over, or when he doesn’t realize I’m here and decides to forego a shirt.”

“When have you seen him without a shirt?” Darcy demands, her cheeks burning bright red. She begins to purposefully clean her cauldron again, unwilling to meet Gemma’s eyes.

“Only once, from the back. You wouldn’t think it, Em, but there’s definitely a body there,” Gemma cackles, and Darcy wonders if she’s telling the truth or just trying to get a rise out of Darcy. “I can see how that’s such a weakness for you. He’s dead handsome, isn’t he? Not the most handsome I’ve ever seen, but definitely something.”

“You think Lupin’s better looking than Sirius? Are you joking?” Emily scoffs, rolling her eyes.

“Maybe if Sirius cut his hair,” Gemma muses, shrugging her shoulders. “He’s good for a laugh, though, isn’t he?”

“He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen,” Emily says breathlessly, and Darcy glances up to see her cheeks are tinted pink.

“You’re all vultures,” Darcy murmurs, pushing her freshly cleaned and polished cauldron off to the side and cleaning her things.

“I’ll tell you about the most handsome man I’ve ever seen,” Gemma sighs, almost too happy to indulge them. “Remember that boy from the gala? With the ponytail? Expensive dress robes . . . a perfect nose. I know that sounds crazy, but he did have a perfect nose, and blue eyes, a nice beard . . . and once you get him out of those clothes, he’s got a huge—”

“Okay, I think we’ve heard enough,” Emily interrupts, sounding rather flustered. “Darcy, who’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen?”

“Gavin,” Darcy answers without hesitation. “I couldn’t even look at him without blushing.”

“I wish I could have seen him,” Emily frowns. Her eyebrows knit together, forming a crease between them. “The only thing everyone here everyone ever agreed on was that Gavin was good-looking.”

The rest of the night Darcy quite enjoys, locked in her bedroom with Gemma and Emily, drinking wine and gossiping about boys and patients from St Mungo’s with the most outrageous injuries and stories, and Emily is full of stories about new interns at the Ministry, wide-eyed assistants and recruits who tremble and flinch at her voice. They don’t speak of the Order in general, or Lupin’s mission, or dinner, or Dumbledore’s disappearance or Hogwarts of Umbridge or Darcy’s encounter with the Minister of Magic. Instead, drunk on wine, they laugh and smoke cigarettes, filling the room with a stale smell that Darcy knows will take weeks to fade without magic. Before going off to bed, Sirius knocks at the door and joins them for a smoke and a few sips of wine—Emily shares the cigarette with him, taking care to act as casual as possible, and yet Darcy can’t help noticing that this seems to appeal to Sirius slightly, judging by the way his gray eyes dart towards her more often than usual. When he bids them a goodnight, Sirius kisses Darcy on the head, leaving Emily looking hopeful for her own kiss. Sirius does not oblige her, however, and finally leaves them in peace.

The rest of the night is a blur—another bottle of wine later, the three of them, flushed and sweating and stinking of drink and smoke, all settle in Darcy’s bed together and it’s then that she thinks she passes out as the room around her spins.

She wakes up what seems like days afterwards, sitting bolt upright, her chest heaving. Gemma and Emily don’t even stir, fast asleep—Emily’s soft snores indicate that she isn’t faking it, and Gemma, with her face against the pillow, is in such a deep sleep that Darcy puts her ear to her back to make sure she’s breathing.

She’d been dreaming of that night again, the night her parents had died. But ever since seeing it in the Pensieve, Darcy’s started having her nightmares from an outsider’s point of view—standing just beyond the scene, unable to intervene, until to stop it happening. It’s surreal and terrifying, and the dream cuts off as the flash of green light rebounds around makes the floor quake beneath her feet. She wishes she could hear her father’s voice, or see a flash of him, for James has never been apart of her nightmare, but sometime she feels that, by not seeing him, it makes her miss him more. She still hasn’t forgotten his sound of his voice, the voice she had first heard in Snape’s memory, so bold and so confident, a voice that has seemingly always been heard by others, not ever having to speak up from the back. Darcy wonders if he still sounded that way the night he was murdered.

Without waking Emily or Gemma, Darcy climbs over Emily to get out of bed. The floor is cold on her bare feet, and the house is chillier than usual. Clad in no more than shorts and one of Lupin’s old shirts, Darcy creeps down the stairs, aiming a sharp kick at Kreacher when he startles her, his grumbling voice coming from the shadows. She misses terribly, but hears the soft pitter-patter of his feet growing more distant afterwards.

By the grandfather clock that had been fixed over the summer, the time is 3:38. She’s not feeling very tired at all, despite only sleeping for a few hours. When Darcy enters the kitchen and turns all the lights on, low flames casting threatening shadows on the walls, she realizes she’s not the only one awake—or recently awake. The kettle has recently been used, judging by the still hot and steaming water inside. A nearly empty soft pack of Gemma’s cigarettes lies half-open on the table, and Darcy scoops one up and puts it to her lips, lighting it with match. Two minutes later, awkwardly juggling an ashtray and a cup of hot cocoa, with the lit cigarette still held firm between her lips, Darcy opens the door of the drawing room with her foot, jumping at the sight of someone on the sofa. She drops the ashtray, clutching her heart.

“Fuck, you scared the hell out of—”

But at the sound of the ashtray hitting the ground hard, Lupin, his back to her, jumps to his feet with his wand out, his chest heaving. When he sees it’s her, he lowers his wand, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Don’t do that,” he gasps, lowering himself back to the sofa. “Don’t . . . sneak up on me like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Darcy says, feeling breathless. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Don’t apologize.”

“Can I join you?” she asks, stepping into the drawing room. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Nor I.” Lupin looks at her over his shoulder. “Yeah, come on.”

“You mind if I smoke?”

“No, not at all. You’re going to get me smoking again, you know?”

“Sirius said you used to smoke like a chimney at Hogwarts.”

Lupin laughs, much to her surprise. “Lies. Whatever you’ve heard about me from Sirius are certainly all lies.”

Darcy chuckles along with him. “You were quite the bad boy, weren’t you?” He shakes his head and blushes. “Not at all the gentleman prefect you wanted me to believe you were.”

Avoiding the topic, Lupin looks her up and down. “Is that my shirt?”

“Do you want it back?”

“No. It looks far better on you.”

Darcy sits down in Sirius’ favorite armchair with her mug in her lap, letting the warmth of the fire heat her legs, looking him over. Lupin’s still fully dressed, and he reaches into his breast pocket, withdrawing the photograph she’d left on his bed just last weekend. He holds it between his index and middle finger, examining it closely. She blushes, looking away and into the fire, puffing distractedly on her cigarette.

“Thank you for the picture,” he says quietly, and Darcy nods. “Don’t really need it now that you’re going to be here full time. Would you like it back?”

She glances at him, heartbroken for a moment. “No,” she says. “You can keep it, if you’d like.”

“Could I really?”

Her heart lifts again, and she smiles weakly, putting her cigarette out and drinking the rest of her cocoa. “Yeah.”

“Fantastic.” His voice sounds weary and hoarse, but Lupin pockets the picture again, looking very serious. “I’m sorry about earlier, Darcy. I was a prat.”

“That’s the general consensus,” she tells him, holding her knees to her chest. “I told them to stop taking the piss out of you, even though you kind of deserved it.”

Lupin laughs softly, an incredulous laugh. He settles back into the sofa, looking at her very hard, with a certain intensity that makes Darcy blush again. “Tell me something, love, and tell me true,” he begins, “say Voldemort is dead in . . . two years, three. You’ll be . . . what, twenty-two, twenty-three? What would be your perfect life?”

Darcy thinks for a moment. The idea is an intimidating one and she watches him carefully for a reaction. “I don’t know,” she answers. “Find a nice boy to marry me, move to the countryside where no one will ever find me. Holidays round here, with Sirius and Harry. Maybe I’d travel a little bit with Harry. We could see the world together. We’d have all the time in the world to do it.”

Lupin nods slowly. “You don’t want children anymore?” The question is asked so innocently that it almost makes her cry.

She can’t bring herself to say it. Instead, she forces herself to smile. “Children would be nice.”

“Am I the nice boy you marry?”

Darcy flushes at his boldness. “Would you like to be?”

He’s quiet for another moment, reaching up to scratch at the beard that’s no longer on his face. Lupin seems to remember this too late, his fingertips touching his cleanly shaven chin curiously. “Would _you_ like me to be?”

“Are you asking me to marry you, Remus Lupin?”

Lupin exhales loudly through his nose, pursing his lips together and runs a hand through his hair again. Darcy’s surprised at how unabashed he looks. “I know I was cold to you earlier, love, and I’m sorry. The last few weeks have given me much to think about.”

“You don’t have to talk about it right now,” Darcy insists gently, making her split second decision and moving from the armchair to the empty space on the sofa beside him. “I know how terrible it must have been, to hear them say things like that to you, to hurt you, to threaten you. I’m so happy that you’re home, and safe.” She reaches out for his hand, but he flinches and she pulls away. “You should be sleeping. Why are you awake?”

“Bad dream,” he replies, turning away from her. “You, of all people, would know what that’s like.”

“Yeah,” Darcy whispers. “I dreamt of mum again tonight.”

Lupin looks at her again, looking deeply apologetic. “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

“Right now? Yes. In general? No, not really.” She swallows hard. “Who gave you a black eye, Remus?”

“One of them. Doesn’t matter who did it.”

“Why did they do it?”

He shakes his head. “Felt a bit like you, actually. Couldn’t keep my mouth shut, and see what it’s left me with?”

“You were running your mouth to a group of dangerous werewolves?” Darcy asks quickly, frowning. “Why would you do that?”

“Because they said some things about you I didn’t like, and I wasn’t going to stand for it,” he replies, raising his voice to barr any interruptions. “Are you done asking stupid questions now?”

Darcy clenches her jaw and shrugs. Sighing heavily, she gets to her feet. “Yeah, I guess I am. And while you’re at it, maybe try not be such a stupid—” She picks up one of the small pillows off the sofa and smacks him across the face with it. “—arsehole! I’m only trying to help you.”

Lupin growls, grabbing the pillow from her hands, his hair disheveled. “I don’t need your help,” he snarls at her. “I don’t need you to fix me like some pet project of yours. Poor Remus Lupin, the monster—oh, don’t look at me like that, Darcy, like you pity me—”

“I don’t pity you,” Darcy snaps, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t act like you’re innocent, like you don’t feel I’m something for you to fix— _oh, there’s a girl at Hogwarts who’s so lonely and sad and she needs a friend, someone to love her because no one else does_ —”

He snorts. “As if that’s ever been a problem for you. Everybody _loves_ you, don’t they?” Lupin gets to his feet, the few inches height he has on her suddenly very threatening. “Did you fuck anyone while I was gone?”

Darcy bristles, blushing. “Are you drunk? Or just mad?”

“Did you?”

“No,” Darcy says, with as much dignity as she can muster. “Have you fucked Tonks?”

“Ah, yes, because I’ve had plenty of time to think of Tonks while I’ve been living with the werewolves, beaten beaten and humiliated for weeks.” Lupin smooths his hair back out of his face. “What is your fixation with Tonks? Why are you so insistent on this non-existent relationship she and I have? Or have I just been oblivious the entire time?”

“Come on,” Darcy scoffs. “She’s beautiful and funny and brilliant.”

“She and I have nothing in common,” Lupin retorts coldly. “Just . . . shut up about Tonks, Darcy—”

Darcy is hit with a wave of desire to suddenly make him hurt, to make Lupin hurt the way his words have hurt her. So it’s without thinking at all about it does she blurt out, “Snape tried to kiss me, you know. While you were gone.”

Lupin blinks once, and then a toothy grin splits his face and he laughs. “I’m sorry, who? What?”

Darcy splutters, flushing harder than ever, covering her face. She knows he’s heard perfectly what she’s said, and clears her throat, not wanting to back down. “Professor Snape,” she rasps, “tried to kiss me.”

Instantly, his face darkens. “I bet you liked that, didn’t you?”

“I said he tried,” Darcy says. “I didn’t say he did.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“I would never kiss Snape.”

“When will you get over yourself, Darcy?” Lupin scowls, looking scary with his jaw clenched and his eyes glinting. “When are you going to fuck him and get it over with?”

“I do not want to _fuck_ Snape—”

“I see the way he touches you,” he continues through gritted teeth. “The way he looks at you, talks to you. I know that he comforted you only yesterday, like a lover would, according to Sirius.”

“I don’t want to fuck Snape, Remus, please—”

“Why not?”

“Because I want to fuck _you_!”

Lupin falters, but straightens up quickly. “Yeah?”

Grudgingly, Darcy mutters, “Yeah.”

Seemingly pleased with himself and impossibly smug, Lupin raises his eyebrows. “I don’t want him touching you, do you understand me? I don’t want anyone touching you.”

“You don’t get to make demands of me after the way you’ve just spoken to me,” Darcy hisses. “You don’t get to tell me what I can or cannot do.”

Lupin closes his eyes, composing himself for a moment. After a short minute, he opens them again and offers a curt, “I’m sorry.” When Darcy doesn’t answer, he sighs. “What can I do to make you forgive me?”

Darcy traces her teeth with her tongue, privately very pleased at the way he seems to shift uncomfortably. “You can beg,” she breathes.

He doesn’t even seem to think about it. Lupin drops to his knees in front of her, resting his forehead against her stomach. Caught slightly off guard, Darcy tenses for a moment before combing her fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs against her. “I’m sorry, Darcy. Please, forgive me.”

“Are you mocking me?”

When he looks up at her and Darcy sees the tears shining in his eyes, she kneels slowly to level with him. He doesn’t look her in the eyes, a shameful flush creeping up his neck. Something about him in this position is so pathetic, and Darcy feels a powerful wave of sympathy wash over her. How many times had Darcy needed comfort and he’d provided it? How many times had Darcy forced him to swallow his own doubts and fears and worries just because she needed help? Who would she be if she did not return that strength, that comfort? How hard can it possibly be? That strength had always come so easily with Harry, just because of her sheer love for him, and she loves Lupin just as much. Surely she can hide her tears for a little while to care for him?

“Remus, look at me,” Darcy whispers, placing a hand on his cheek. “Look at me. Look me in the eyes.”

Lupin obliges her this request.

“I love you,” she says, “only you. Let me take care of you.”

“I don’t need you to—”

“But I want to.” Darcy pauses, brushing her thumb over his cheekbone. “You’ve been through something so awful, at the risk of your life, and you need someone to take care of you.”

“I wouldn’t ask that of—”

“Promise you won’t get out of hand with me again?” Darcy combs his hair out of his eyes, taking Lupin’s hands and urging him onto the sofa.

“I’m sorry . . . I forgot myself and . . . you know I didn’t mean it. You know I was only jealous. Darcy, you’ve no idea how much I missed you, and they all had very clever methods of getting into my head . . . planting false ideas . . .” Lupin sighs, a weary expression settling onto his face. “I swear, I’ll never speak to you like that again.”

Darcy smiles weakly. “Let’s get you to bed. You need rest—a long, long sleep. I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.”

“Come with me,” he pleads softly. “You’re not going to make me sleep alone, are you?”

“I have friends expecting me in the morning.”

“I’m sure they’ll be just fine without you.”

He cranes his neck out to kiss her, and Darcy meets him in the middle. She expects his touch to be rough and angry, but it is gentle, just as gentle as the first time he touched her. Even his kiss is gentle, loving, sweet. Lupin threads his fingers through her hair, kissing her deeper, pulling her to him, pressing her body to his with a sense of urgency, a kind of desperation that Darcy has almost down to a science—the desperation of someone so incredibly lonely and starving for love and affection.

When he pulls away, he utters another apology before letting Darcy bring him slowly to bed, where he settles his head against her chest, throws an arm around her stomach, and almost immediately falls asleep.

* * *

Many Order members come and go over the next week, making the place seem like a madhouse, always loud and always crowded. Darcy can’t help but notice (from her place on the landing above the kitchen, watching through the bars of the banister since the door is always made Imperturbable) everyone looks slightly anxious—more so than usual—and Darcy suspects it has something to do with Dumbledore’s whereabouts. According to Emily, no one has any idea where he is, and several times Darcy is questioned in front of everyone. McGonagall asks her (much nicer than Umbridge) to recall exactly what happened after Dumbledore had taken her from Hogwarts, and Darcy tells them all she remembers—the tingling of the heat as they traveled in darkness, slamming against the floor of the kitchen, looking around to find that she was alone. One meeting, after Darcy had recounted this five times already, Snape insists there’s something she isn’t remembering, insists that Dumbledore must have told her something, that he must have given her some clue or indication. Darcy tries hard to remember anything, but she’s sure that Dumbledore hadn’t said anything to her.

“There must be something,” Emmeline Vance groans, looking very frustrated, but clearly trying to look otherwise. Her jaw is clamped in a grimace as he stares down the table at Darcy. “Come on, girl, remember! Does anyone know Legilimency? We might be able to pull some forgotten memory from her.”

With a thrill of horror, Darcy and Snape meet eyes, but she looks away quickly. The last thing she wants is for Snape to delve into her most recent memories, to see private things he has no right to see, namely regarding Lupin.

“Leave her,” Lupin tells them all from across the table. “She’s told us all she knows. Darcy, be a good girl and leave us now.”

Darcy doesn’t hesitate to obey, unable to get out of the meeting quick enough.

Though, she’s quite glad most of the Order seems to sympathize with her greatly. Snape brings her a short stack of essays to grade in order to keep her busy, which is something that pleases her despite the amount of scoffing Gemma gives her. Mundungus surprises her with a bottle of ‘imported’ wine, which Lupin explains afterwards is really just wine that’s been banned by the Ministry for causing hallucinations in its drinkers. She shelves it once she learns this information. Even Tonks hangs around sometimes to listen to Darcy play the piano when Lupin tells her about the new song she’s been learning, and he sits with Tonks and watches Darcy closely each time she plays, always requesting Moonlight Sonata when she finishes.

Others aren’t as sympathetic or willing to help. While Kingsley and Emily keep her up to date with news regarding the Ministry tracking she and Dumbledore and bring her magazines she might enjoy to keep her from getting deathly bored, the rest of the Order seems indifferent. Many members who don’t know Darcy very well seem to (not outright, but it’s pretty clear to her) blame her for Dumbledore’s ‘sacking’. Gemma tells her that some people have argued that if Dumbledore’s Army had dissolved when Darcy was told to end it, this would never have happened. They blame her for being caught, for leading an army with Dumbledore’s name associated with it, and Darcy has no desire to correct them, to let them know it was Harry who’d been teaching them, Harry who’d been in charge of the whole thing.

Mrs. Weasley is the worst of them all. While Darcy is sure she means well (or not), Mrs. Weasley is doing her absolute best to keep Darcy and Lupin separated whenever she’s in the same house as them, and Mrs. Weasley seems to be taking it upon herself to be at number twelve, Grimmauld Place far too often for Darcy’s liking. During mealtimes, she has Darcy sit between Sirius and herself, always making sure to place Lupin as far away as possible from Darcy, and when Tonks is around, Mrs. Weasley makes sure that Tonks always has the seat beside Lupin. Darcy always feels discouraged during these meals, for Tonks seems to be very interested in talking to Lupin, who always is relatively polite back to her. Darcy’s sure he’s picked up on what Mrs. Weasley is up to, and it wouldn’t bother Darcy if she had something to privately gloat about, but she doesn’t really.

While Lupin has made good on his promise to not speak badly to Darcy again, he still doesn’t seem back to his normal self. He does not protest once while Darcy cares for him—making him meals, reading to him as he dozes on the sofa, darning and patching his old clothes, cutting his hair, letting him lay his head in her lap—and yet, he isn’t so sweet all the time, she’s noticed. He’s quick to anger, quicker than she’s ever known him to be, and over small things, too. Gemma drops a bowl of porridge one morning during breakfast, spilling some on the tip of his shoes (which Darcy easily cleans), and Lupin lashes out on her seemingly out of nowhere, leaving Gemma not only completely bewildered, but fuming. When Mrs. Weasley bangs on Lupin’s bedroom door one morning after finding Darcy’s bed empty and Darcy nowhere to be found, he forces Darcy back onto his bed as she gets up to let Mrs. Weasley know she’s okay, and shouts at her through the door, telling Mrs. Weasley to bugger off in a much cruder way.

And, perhaps one of the more different things about Lupin, much to Darcy’s deep displeasure, is that he absolutely refuses to touch her.

Having taken to sleeping in Lupin’s bed every night now, growing accustomed to him having nightmares, to him needing consoled in the middle of the night, to him curling up next to her or resting his head upon his chest as she used to do with him, Darcy feels something is sorely lacking. He does touch her sometimes—innocently, of course; in the mornings, Darcy always feels his fingertips brush against her back or whatever body part is facing him at the time, and sometimes he touches curiously the bare skin of her stomach whenever her shirt begins to ride up, or while they’re sleeping, his fingers will find hers and he’ll twine them together loosely, squeezing every so often. And he kisses her—he kisses her most of all. Never around people, never when anyone else is awake, but always behind his locked bedroom door, in the darkness and unnerving silence. Lupin always kisses her for a long time, lips never leaving hers, leaving her breathless and itchy around her lips, chest heaving and heart racing, and everytime Darcy goes to take things another step forward, by reaching beneath the blankets to stroke the front of his trousers, or by bringing his hand between her legs, he always stops things. It leaves Darcy so frustrated and feeling tight in her core, and after a few days of this, Darcy finds that Lupin doesn’t mind when she grinds against his hard thigh when he kisses her. She’s desperate for friction, for _release_ , unable to understand how this frustration isn’t killing him, unable to understand why he won’t just fuck her, only able to accept his refusal and not to go beyond the limits he’s silently set for himself.

Some days she wishes he would do more than kiss her—talk to her, hold her hand, smile at her. More than anything she wants to hear him just tell her that he loves her, and Darcy thinks that would be even sweeter than kissing Lupin. At least then Darcy could be sure there’s nothing wrong with her, would be reassured she’s not the problem, that it’s not _her_ he doesn’t want.

Then again, Darcy supposes she could just ask, but with Lupin’s tendency to lose control of himself and the temper he’s been having, she’s privately afraid to ask him, not wanting to risk losing him and whatever it is they have all because he won’t fuck her.

Even Snape has become cold towards her. On Monday, when he’d come to give her the stack of work to be done, he’d been rather kind. He’d asked her how she was managing and adjusting, asked if she needed anything she was unable to get herself, asked if there was anything he could do to make the transition from Hogwarts to Grimmauld Place a pleasant and easy one. Snape had been eager to assist her, happy to help, but Darcy hadn’t been able to think of anything she needed, and so Snape had left her, slightly disappointed. Darcy had been quite pleased with Snape’s attitude towards her, happy to indulge him with a small smile before he’d left, happy to wrap her fingers around his arm as she’d walked him to the front doors.

Yet, by the end of the week—Friday, in fact—when Snape arrives at Grimmauld Place for another hastily put together meeting with Professor McGonagall and Mad-Eye Moody at the head instead of Dumbledore. Mrs. Weasley had come early for dinner, insisted Darcy eat quickly, and then pushed her out of the kitchen, so Darcy takes her usual place at the top of the stairs, looking down onto the kitchen hallway. When Snape finally arrives, he walks by, glances up at her as he always does, and quickly looks away. Feeling reckless, Darcy gets to her feet and runs down the stairs to catch him.

“Can I sit in on tonight’s meeting?” she asks.

“No,” Snape replies, not meeting her eyes. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Darcy.”

She wonders if Snape’s abrupt change in attitude is because of the little moments he’s noticed between she and Lupin while at Grimmauld Place—smiles shared across a room, Lupin’s hand on the small of her back, Darcy setting down a delicious meal for him before a meeting—or maybe it’s the students have been bugging him at Hogwarts about her. Or maybe it’s for another reason entirely, but Darcy doesn’t think he’ll tell her if she asks, so she doesn’t.

Professor McGonagall even brings Darcy perhaps the best gift of all that same Friday—a small, strip of parchment filled with Harry’s messy handwriting. It’s short and to the point, but it eases Darcy’s heart somewhat to receive something from Harry.

_Am okay. Max left my dorm yesterday morning and hasn’t returned. Expect him. Fred and George causing mayhem on large scale. Amazing. We need to talk. Serious._

When she reads these last few words, her heart sinks. Professor McGonagall is lingering just outside the kitchen, speaking in a low voice to Sirius and Lupin. Darcy approaches, the parchment still held tight in her fist. “Professor McGonagall?” she asks.

“What is it, Potter? Have you remembered something?” McGonagall asks, turning away from Sirius and Lupin to peer down her long nose at Darcy.

“I was only wondering if you could bring back my reply to Harry,” Darcy says, uncomfortable with the rather stern and pinched look on McGonagall’s face.

“Yes. Go write your reply, Potter. I’ll take it back when the meeting is over.”

Darcy rushes up to her bedroom, tearing apart the drawers for a small piece of parchment, her heart thundering as she holds her quill above it, the ink pooling on the paper. She can’t see anyway that she’d be able to speak to Harry, not with the fires being policed or the Ministry looking for her. She’s sure she could hide out in Hogsmeade, maybe go to the cave that Sirius has once hidden in and urge Harry to use his Invisibility Cloak, but with Filch working so hard to bring students to justice and with his knowledge of the secret passageways, Darcy thinks that may be slightly risky . . . maybe Snape could get her some Polyjuice Potion, and she could just walk right into Hogwarts disguised as someone else for an hour or so, just to hear this important news that Harry says is so serious. Everything in her is screaming that it’s impossible, that it would be best to encourage Harry to just write it down and give it to McGonagall . . . unless it’s something he doesn’t want to risk McGonagall seeing . . . curiosity gnaws at her, and Darcy places the tip of her quill to the parchment and writes one word:

_When?_

Darcy can’t remember a week ever going by so slowly. Though she is able to find joy in the small things. When she isn’t waiting for an Order meeting to finish, or taking care of Lupin, or doing work for Snape, Darcy plays the piano until her fingers cramp up painfully, she reads until the words on the pages hurt her eyes and head, and twice, Emily brings her paints, brushes, and two blank canvases. She knows that Emily is only trying to make her feel better, but the gesture is welcome and Darcy isn’t quite sure how to say a proper thank you. Sometimes Darcy feels she’s at complete peace while seated before the fire, sharing paints and wine with Emily, giggling and joking like schoolgirls again. And the best thing about it all is that Sirius’ mood has improved tenfold with Darcy always at the house. Gemma’s right about him—he’s always good for a laugh, and Darcy and Sirius spend hours together playing cards and going through pictures, and he even enjoys watching Darcy experiment with potions, grinning when she goes into a long-winded tangent about the properties of many ingredients.

Sunday evening, Darcy decides to pay Phineas a visit, having been so distracted with the many comings and goings in the house. Darcy slips into the empty bedroom and closes the door behind her, sure no one will disturb her, but not wanting Kreacher to come skulking in. The portrait is empty when she steps up to it.

“Phineas,” she says loudly, knowing that it will likely take some effort to draw him back to his portrait at Grimmauld Place. “ _Phineas_. Phineas!”

There’s a loud, clearly fake yawn, and Phineas Nigellus saunters into the portrait, looking bored. He slouches into his high-backed chair and looks curiously at her, fingering the dark facial hair on his face lazily. “Where were you?” he demands suddenly. “We had a deal, didn’t we? Three days, and you never showed. Tell me why I should do anything for you, who decided to skip our date in order to spend more time with my filthy blood-traitor great-great-grandson.”

“It wasn’t a date,” Darcy frowns, scrunching her nose. “And I forgot, I’m sorry. I got distracted. I appreciate you coming to see me today. Have you heard anything?”

“No,” Phineas answers shortly. “You probably know much more than I. No one’s been in the Headmaster’s office since Dumbledore disappeared. It’s awfully dull here.” While Darcy thinks, chewing on her bottom lip, Phineas leans forward on his chair. “I’m curious about something, Darcy Potter, regarding one of your friends.”

“Who?”

“The Smythe girl.”

“Gemma? What do you want from her?”

“Has she been burned off the family tree yet?” Phineas asks, and the question lights a fire inside Darcy.

“No.”

Phineas scoffs. “In my day, she would have been disowned long ago, at the first sign of delinquency.”

“Gemma isn’t a delinquent. She’s a good person. It isn’t her fault what her parents have chosen to be, or what they’ve chosen to believe.” Darcy bristles when Phineas raises his eyebrows, feeling fiercely protective of Gemma.

“You’re a fool, Darcy Potter. Come give me a goodnight kiss so I can return back to my other portrait . . . I’m tired of talking to you.”

“No,” Darcy retorts, frowning. “You’re not even real.”

“Aren’t I? You’re talking to me, aren’t you? If I wasn’t real, how could you?” Phineas groans as he stands, as if his portrait joints ache. “Bring the girl next time. I want to see her with my own eyes.”

Darcy watches him go, bewildered. What could he possibly want to talk to Gemma about? Nothing good, surely . . . but perhaps it would be best to appease him, for while Phineas is annoying and insufferable, Darcy can’t help but to think he’d probably make a very good ally in the future if she ever needed one. 


	55. Chapter 55

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, what a disappointing snow storm, but the perfect opportunity to do nothing but sit on my ass and watch my favorite movies all weekend and lag with my writing (worth it).

_“_ What are you doing?”

“Admiring you,” Darcy smiles, nuzzling into the warm pillow. She watches Lupin laugh softly to his reflection in the mirror, drying his hair with a towel. His shirt is tighter than usual, his chest straining against the material. No longer lanky and awkward, but _strong_ , a real man. “What are you doing up so early, anyway?”

“Early morning seems the only time a man can have an uninterrupted bath in this madhouse,” Lupin answers, smiling at her reflection over his own reflected shoulder in the mirror. He lowers the towel from his head, his hair sticking up in all directions. “Quit your staring. You’re going to make me blush.”

“You privately like it.”

“Do I?” Lupin turns around to face her, a slight grin on his face. He leans against the dresser, sighing and looking her over.

Darcy runs a hand through her hair, pulling the blankets up to cover her chest when she notices his eyes wandering. “What day is it?”

“Sunday.”

“And how many Order meetings have you lot scheduled?”

“None. Sunday, a day of rest.” Lupin narrows his eyes, not maliciously or suspiciously, but curiously. “Tell me, love, how about a nice dinner tonight? You and me, just the two of us, in front of the fire, some music playing, no one to disturb us.”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“Is it a date if we don’t leave the house?” he laughs, cocking an eyebrow. “It doesn’t have to be one if you don’t want it to be.”

“What makes you think I don’t want it to be?” Darcy asks, biting down on her lower lip.

Lupin makes an amused sort of noise. “So that’s a yes, then? Are you going to dress up for me, love? One of those dresses you know I like so much? I’ll even make sure to look smart, just for you.”

Darcy blushes, her heart leaping in her throat. “I think I’d quite like that.”

Lupin smiles a relieved little smile, swooping down to kneel at the bedside, level with Darcy. He pushes her hair out of her face with his fingers. “Six o’clock.” He leans in to give her a soft, lingering kiss on the lips. “Don’t be late.”

She watches him go, relishes the small smile he gives her over his shoulder before he closes his bedroom door behind him. Darcy rolls over to face the single grimy window in the room, checking the watch still on her wrist. She wishes she could go downstairs now and have dinner, remembering some of her happier memories of having dinner with him at Hogwarts, laughing with him and joking with him. She’d been so in love with Lupin then, just a young girl pining after her professor, completely innocent to the burden of love, naive and foolish, but completely and utterly in love regardless.

The bed smells of him—the pillows seem to carry the distinctive smell of his shampoo always, the scent embedded into the very feathers of them, the heavy blankets like his arms around her, warm and safe. To be sleeping beside Lupin again is something out of a dream, to receive kisses that are so like the ones he used to give her is something she thought she’d never know again. And she rather enjoys caring for him, just like he used to care for her. Darcy likes knowing that she is the only one able to coerce tears from him (though these become fewer and fewer as the days wear on), and she likes the way he nuzzles into her chest when she throws her arms around him when he begins to thrash in the middle of the night. And just last night, Lupin had kissed other parts of her than just her lips—his mouth had left wet and tender kisses down her throat, his teeth grazing her pulse, and he’d driven her insane. He _knew_ he’d driven her insane, had taken pleasure from making her squirm underneath him as he kissed her.

Darcy closes her eyes again, savoring the idea that tonight may be the closest thing to a date she’ll know for a long time. Tonight she won’t even care if he doesn’t touch her or fuck her—tonight, kisses will be enough, dinner in front of the fire will be enough. Tonight will be perfect, and she will try very hard to make it so—tonight, she’ll make Lupin fall back in love with her, tonight she wants to make him say the words she longs to hear again. She’s going to make him want her to be his again, and how hard could it be, seeing as she’s already halfway there already? Falling asleep beside him, kissing him at night until her lips are swollen, waking with a protective arm around her some mornings, her back tucked perfectly against his chest, as if she were made just for him.

Gemma seizes on the opportunity.

The afternoon is spent with she and Emily, who have dug through their closets at home for all of their old clothes, and now several outfits lay all over Darcy’s bedroom. Darcy, with seemingly all the time in the world, tries every outfit on that she even half-likes. While Gemma’s clothes are traditional at times, they’re expensive looking—silk blouses that Darcy’s almost afraid to touch in fear of ruining them, shimmering party dresses that dip down to reveal more cleavage than Darcy wishes, or else are low cut in the back, showing off more skin than necessary for a dinner by the fire. Gemma urges Darcy to try them on anyway, to which she has no decent argument.

“My tits hurt,” Darcy sighs as Gemma struggles to zip one of the dresses up. “Look, Gemma, it isn’t going to fit . . . _ouch_! Gemma, stop! My tits are too big for the dress!”

“Who would have thought that would ever be a problem for you?” Gemma laughs, giving up on fitting Darcy into the dress and unzipping it all the way so Darcy’s able to step out of it. “All the time you’ve been spending here is fattening you up.”

Darcy looks at her half-naked reflection in the mirror. Gemma’s not wrong; she’s definitely not fat, and Darcy doesn’t think she’s ever been. If anything, she’s always been slightly too skinny, always making her look half a child, her tits hardly there, able to squeeze through the smallest crevices (which had come in handy with all the adventures she and Harry have undergone). While Hogwarts food had always helped her gain back the weight lost at Privet Drive, it never filled her out like this. In fact, Darcy can’t help but quite like the fact that she finally looks, in some form, a _woman_ instead of a girl, hoping that—in the right clothes—Lupin will notice this, too.

Emily’s clothes have always fit well, and it’s still that way. Her clothes lean more towards Muggle fashion, especially with her father being a Muggle. Updated patterns and fabrics, seemingly years ahead of the old clothes Aunt Petunia had provided Darcy. Emily doesn’t have many flower-patterned things at all, instead opting for solid colors—pretty pinks and soft yellows, sweaters in every color of the rainbow from deep blue to Slytherin green. Plaid skirts and tweed skirts, slim jeans that are cuffed at the ankles and old band t-shirts that look like they probably could have been Mr. Duncan’s twenty years ago or so with small holes in the cotton, burns that look to have been caused by cigarettes. And out of all of these old outfits of Emily’s, Gemma finds a single dress, blue like the color of Darcy’s jeans, _chambray_ according to Gemma, whatever the fuck that means, a lace-up neckline that still manages to be modest, short sleeves that cover her shoulders. Emily agrees on the choice of clothing, something that greatly pleases Gemma, but Darcy’s privately very glad that Emily decides to go home later in the afternoon, when Darcy decides to take a bath. She doesn’t know how much longer she can take them fawning over her.

Her nerves begin to take over when she settles into the bath. Darcy wants everything to be perfect, perfect, perfect. _I have to be perfect. I must be perfect, perfect, perfect. Untouched, clean, perfect_. She scrubs at her skin, scrubbing away any traces that Snape’s hands or fingers or lips may have left, scrubbing until her skin is a bright pink and smooth and clean as it’s ever going to get. When she finally finished, she brushes her teeth until her gums begin to bleed from the stress of the bristles after several minutes.

Gemma is still waiting in Darcy’s bedroom when she walks in, a towel wrapped around her. The room smells of smoke, and Darcy reaches for a cigarette, only to find that Gemma’s smoked the last one.

“If ever I needed a cigarette, it would be now,” Darcy grumbles, opening her dresser to sort through her underwear. She’s grateful, at least, that her underwear is not secondhand.

“Oh, relax. Don’t tell me you’re going to wear anything under that dress?” Gemma asks. Darcy looks over her shoulder to see a sly smile on her friend’s face. “That’s the joy of being so young, my love. We don’t need bras to hold our tits up, and any man who comes to the realization that we’re not wearing panties is a man that’s a sure fuck. You’d be one step closer to fucking him already.”

Darcy looks away quickly, blushing so hard that her cheeks begin to ache, as if she’s been smiling for too long. Despite being fresh out of the bath, an unclean feeling begins to spread over her, making goosebumps rise on her bare, damp skin. “I don’t know . . . I’m just glad to spend time with him . . .” Darcy squirms, holding the towel tighter around her. “If he doesn’t to sleep with me, then I won’t force him to . . .”

“Tell me again why he hasn’t tried anything yet? You’ve been sleeping in his bed since he’s gotten back.”

“It’s complicated,” Darcy replies, feeling the need to defend Lupin’s choice, despite her being slightly disappointed with it. “Look, he had a bad time with the werewolves, and he’s still adjusting. I told you to stop taking the piss out of him.”

“Ah, so he can’t get his cock up?”

In the mirror, Darcy sees her face go beet red. “It’s not that, and I’d appreciate it if you don’t talk about his . . .” She blushes harder, which seems impossible. “If I walk down there without a bra or underwear on, he’s going to think I . . . expect it, and I don’t want him to . . . just because he feels obligated to me . . . I . . . I just want him to be comfortable . . .”

“All right, how about . . . a bra, but no panties? He won’t notice unless you tell him, and if it turns out he does want to fuck you tonight, he’ll be in for a treat.”

Darcy can’t argue with this. As the sun continues to set lower and lower in the sky and six o’clock creeps closer and closer, making Darcy’s nerves jangle and her heart pump a little faster than normal, Gemma frets over her. She dries Darcy’s hair and braids it in a very plain and simple way, just to keep it out of her face. She helps Darcy dress, laces the top of the dress rather loosely, but not too loosely that anything is too visible. With a simple necklace on and shoes that match, Darcy finally looks in the mirror at quarter to five and her breath hitches.

What she had originally thought was a rather plain dress looks decent on her—it doesn’t make her look like Aunt Petunia or Lily. It doesn’t make her look years older like the gala dress did, or years younger like some of Aunt Petunia’s clothes do, the way they fit her. Instead, she looks very much herself, which shouldn’t be as odd a sight as it is. Her reflection is a reflection of Darcy Potter—clad in secondhand clothes, twenty-years-old, a skinny girl with a small waist and long legs that look even longer with the dress on. She touches the braid in her hair, the necklace around her throat. It’s a natural look, and she’s sure that if Lupin loves her at all, he will love her like this—underwear or no.

“One more thing, Darcy,” Gemma smiles, tucking a stray hair behind Darcy’s ear. She retreats for a moment, opening the drawer in the nightstand and digging around for something. When she stands up straight again, there’s a triumphant look about her, and in Gemma’s hand is a small lipstick tube. She uncaps it, revealing a very red lipstick that’s clearly been used rather often.

Darcy shifts uncomfortably, forcibly reminded of Aunt Petunia slathering lipstick and makeup on her face, but not wanting to upset Gemma, she lets her smear the red lipstick on her lips. “This is stupid, Gemma,” Darcy murmurs, a flush still visible on her cheeks. “It’s only dinner. It’s not like we’re going anywhere . . . he just wants to have a dinner without an argument . . .”

“If you two weren’t wanted by the Ministry at the moment, he’d take you out somewhere, far away from here.” Gemma lowers her hands from Darcy’s face, her brilliant smile slowly fading. She touches Darcy’s shoulders gently. “Darcy, what’s wrong?”

Clutching Gemma’s wrists, Darcy can feel the first years building painfully in her eyes. She doesn’t want to cry—not now, not ten minutes before she’s due to spend time with Lupin, but the weight of the secret she’s carrying is killing her, and she has to tell someone, lest she accidentally let it slip to Lupin. “Gemma, I have to tell you something,” she whispers, half afraid that someone may be listening in. “I have to tell you.”

“Why are you crying? What’s happened?” Gemma wipes Darcy’s tears, shaking her head. “Darcy, listen, you can tell me afterwards. Don’t let anything spoil your night, all right?”

“No, Gemma . . . I have to tell you now, or else I won’t have the courage to tell you later.” Darcy squeezes Gemma’s wrists tighter, listening to her pulse pounding in her ears. But she struggles with it, for saying it outloud to Gemma will make it true—truer than she’s ever thought it. Saying it to Gemma will make it definite and permanent, will completely crush the dream Darcy’s kept close to her heart for so long . . .

“What is it, Darcy?”

“I—” Darcy closes her eyes, clenching her jaw tight. Why is it so fucking hard to just say it? Gemma would understand, wouldn’t she? Gemma would sympathize, would still love her, would comfort her . . . so why don’t the words come as easily as she thought they would? “I . . . Gemma, I—” Looking into Gemma’s deep brown eyes, able to see her own face reflected in them, Darcy sighs. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Gemma looks entirely unconvinced, but releases Darcy’s shoulders, toying with her red hair, wiping some lipstick off Darcy’s skin with the pad of her thumb. “Don’t keep him waiting, my little lion,” she breathes, looking apologetic, despite not having heard Darcy’s confession. “Darcy, you know there is nothing in this world that Lupin loves more than you?”

“Don’t . . . don’t do that,” Darcy says, feeling the urge to cry again. “Don’t say things like that only to make me feel better.”

“It’s true.” Gemma gives Darcy’s cheek a gentle pat. “Now go. I’ve been tasked with keeping Sirius busy. I bet Em wishes she were here to accept that assignment, doesn’t she?”

They both laugh softly, and Darcy dries her watery eyes. “Okay.”

Gemma nods, a small smile making its way back onto her face. “Listen, Darcy. How would you feel if I took some time off work? Just a few days. We could sit around and eat junk food and get really fat. We wouldn’t even have to leave the sofa.” She laughs again when Darcy smiles.

“You don’t have to do that for me.”

“God knows I deserve a vacation, yeah?”

“You don’t want to vacation here. It’s depressing.”

“Not with you lot around,” Gemma says. “You’re my favorite people. This is my favorite place in the world, Darcy.”

“Then you’re mad,” Darcy teases, allowing her eyes to flutter closed as Gemma kisses her cheek. “Seriously deranged.”

“Yet to be proven otherwise.” Gemma laughs once more, giving her a gentle push towards the bedroom door. “Look, you’re a minute late. Didn’t he give you specific instructions not to be late?”

“It’s not a long walk down the stairs. I think he’ll forgive me.”

“You better hope so.”

Darcy nods, smoothing down the front of her dress. It fits surprisingly well, and Darcy suddenly wishes she hadn’t forgone underwear, but Gemma’s right . . . he’ll never know unless he’s interested in taking things forward. She makes her way down the stairs lightly and quietly, passing the curtained portrait of Mrs. Black without incident, and thankfully not running into Kreacher once. When she makes it down another landing, she sees Lupin leaning against the wall, looking impossibly handsome, looking at his watch, the watch Darcy had bought him two Christmases ago, looking cleaned and cared for. Darcy hesitates, looking him over while she can.

His chest, his _damn_ chest—that’s the first thing she notices, taut and broad and muscular underneath the new, blue sweater he’s chosen to wear, the collar of his white undershirt looking stiff and impeccably starched, brushing against his neck. Lupin’s decided against a clean shaven look, instead opting for a cropped beard, hiding some of the scars on his face that Darcy knows by heart without having to look at them. His hair is pushed back out of his eyes, the odd strand or so falling back into his face, but it’s an endearing sight.

“Sorry I’m late. Gemma held me up,” she says quietly, heart racing.

“It’s all—” Lupin looks up distractedly before tapping his watch and freezing, his eyes finding her again. He watches her walk down the rest of the stairs, eyes traveling up and down her body before resting on her lips. He moves to the bottom of the stairs to meet her, and Darcy almost flinches when he reaches out. A smile graces his face as Lupin brushes his thumb very lightly over her lips. “What’s this?”

“Do you not like it?” Darcy frowns, moving to wipe the lipstick off, but Lupin’s fingers curl around her wrist. “It was Gemma’s idea . . . I told her it was stupid, but—”

“Relax, Darcy. I think it’s cute.”

Blushing, Darcy clears her throat. “Really?”

He laughs, the sweetest sound Darcy’s heard in what feels like a long time. “Yeah, really.”

“Oh.” She smiles nervously. “Listen . . . we don’t have to . . . if you don’t want to . . . I mean, if you’d rather have dinner with everyone else—”

“Oh, no, no, no!” Lupin is still smiling, an encouraging sight, taking her hands and pulling her down the last few stairs. His palm comes to rest on the small of her back, leading her down the tight corridor towards the drawing room. “I’ve already cooked, anyway. Don’t worry, I‘ve asked Gemma to keep Sirius busy so we can take our time.”

He opens the door and Darcy crosses the threshold, suddenly frozen in place. The room’s been entirely rearranged, only one sofa facing the warm and cozy fire, their dinners on the table before it, along with two empty glasses and a bottle of wine. The other furniture—the second sofa and the two armchairs—have been pushed against the walls, and Darcy looks up to realize that the source of orange light in the room is not due entirely to the fire nor to the gas lamps that she’s become so used to, but several candles floating in the air, much like Hogwarts. It makes her smile, feeling slightly more comfortable. In the corner of the room is a record player, just like the one Aunt Petunia liked to listen to when Darcy was a little girl. Aunt Petunia would say good-bye to her last vile friend and Darcy, depending on if she recited her poetry sweetly enough, would be rewarded with some biscuits, listening to a song played on the turntable. The song playing now is wordless, and she faintly hears a trumpet beneath the louder piano.

Darcy turns slowly to face Lupin, who is just now closing the door behind them. “You did all this for me?” she asks breathlessly, wondering if it’s premature to kiss him now.

“No, for the next pretty girl who walks through the door,” Lupin grins, shaking his head. He looks briefly around the room, eyes flicking up to the candles above them. “Is it too much? My goal was originally to make you almost forget you were at Grimmauld Place. Just . . . don’t look at the tapestry. I think that rather gives it away.”

She looks at him for a moment before laughing. “You’re funny.”

Lupin leads Darcy to the sofa, holding her hand loosely and releasing it as they sit. He pours them both glasses of wine, his cheeks looking slightly pink in the firelight. “Have you only just noticed?”

“I think you’ve always been funny,” she answers, looking wistfully at her dinner plate, filled with lamb that’s still perfectly rare, a medley of vegetables, and a steaming baked potato, “when you aren’t acting so serious and adult-like.”

He turns to look at her. Darcy smiles sweetly at him, grabbing at her plate. “You mean when I’m sulking,” he teases, taking his own plate. “Go on, say it. I know you’re thinking it.”

Darcy considers him, taking a long drink of wine. “Fine. You’re funny when you’re not sulking.”

It earns her a quiet laugh, almost a scoff, but in good nature. “It’s been known to happen.”

While he begins to eat, Darcy continues to watch him, narrowing her eyes. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“You’ve taken good care of me since I got back. I don’t think it’s any secret that it’s been easy for me.” He lifts his eyes to meet hers. “I wanted to thank you.” Lupin lifts his glass of wine to toast her. “So, thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Darcy says sheepishly, looking away from him. “It’s the least I can do for you, to make up for all the times you’ve cared for me. I don’t mind it.”

Lupin smiles at her, eyes wandering down her body to examine her dress more closely, not stopping at the hemline, but continuing down her legs. Only when Darcy turns her head slightly to show him she’s noticed does he look away.

“You look very pretty tonight,” he tells her, clearing his throat. “Is that a new dress? I’ve never seen you wear it.”

“Yes.” She blushes. “You look nice, as well.”

“Just nice?”

Darcy smiles, chuckling. “Very dashing.”

Lupin is quiet a moment as the record crackles, the next song beginning softly. “You look more than just pretty. You’re . . .” He looks at her, struggling to find the proper word. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Darcy lifts her glass to her mouth to hide her flushed face. “Flattery gets you nowhere, Professor Lupin.”

There’s something primal—carnal about Lupin’s face for a moment. It’s only there for maybe a second, flashing in his eyes when she says the words. It’s not angry or even mean, and his pupils seem distorted afterwards, oddly dilated and blown out in the lighting. Darcy squeezes her thighs together, hoping he thinks nothing of it.

“I miss it, you know,” she whispers, feeling bold, feeling reckless after seeing the look on his face. “Sitting in your private room, eating dinner, my knee touching yours, pretending I didn’t notice.” Darcy inhales deeply and slowly moves her left leg closer, their knees barely touching.

Lupin hesitates, looking down at their knees. With his dinner plate still resting upon his thigh, he moves his hand tantalizingly slowly towards her, and it comes to rest on her bare thigh. The backs of his fingers drag lightly from the top of her knee to the hem of her dress and back again. He looks into her eyes for what seems like a long time, as if waiting for a command, or for her to tell him to stop. Darcy would never; she shifts slightly to keep her thighs clenched together, the simple contact enough to make her damp between the legs already.

 _God, I’m pathetic_ , she thinks, holding his gaze. _Not ten minutes into dinner and I’m already soaking wet for him._

“I miss it, too,” Lupin replies, squeezing her thigh gently, seemingly testing her, figuring out her limits. His hand is so warm on her skin, searing his handprint into her flesh, a lasting memory she’ll never be able to forget or scrub away no matter how hard she tries. Finally, he withdraws his hand, his eyes softening again. “Eat, love, before it gets cold.”

With the lack of boundaries established through such short contact, things seem to relax a little. Lupin speaks of music so fluidly and wonderfully, in ways that she’s never heard him speak of anything before. Darcy hardly eats, only able to stare at him in wonder, listening to his long-winded speeches on singers his mother once enjoyed. He reminisces about the records his mother used to play him every night after dinner, how she’d play music through the nights when the moon was full. She learns that his uncle on his mother’s side played the trumpet, and he used to see his uncle play twice a week sometimes. He talks at great length about music, and all the while, pausing often for a short moment to listen to the music backing him.

“Brilliant, he was,” Lupin sighs happily, an arm draped over the back of the sofa, dangerously close to Darcy’s shoulders. “A Muggle, like my mother, but he could work magic with the trumpet. He played in a jazz band, sometimes my mother sang for them. The most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.”

“I wish I could sing,” Darcy confesses. “Beautifully, anyway.”

“You used to sing in the shower. Never in the bath.”

Darcy falters, feeling breathless at the thought of him paying attention to such small details about her. “Only when I thought you were sleeping,” she says, a smile tugging at her lips.

Lupin smiles back, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I prefer you playing the piano. You’ve a gift there, you know.”

“I’m not a professional,” she jokes, turning in her seat to face him. “Go on, then. What musical talent have you inherited from your mother?”

“I haven’t,” he laughs, flashing her an easy smile. “You’ve heard me sing. Makes your ears bleed, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe you just haven’t found your talent yet,” Darcy grins, nodding when Lupin holds up the bottle of wine to refill her glass. “Maybe you’d make an excellent flute player.”

Lupin stands to replace the record, now finished. With his back to her, Darcy looks him up and down, admiring the sight of him bent over. “Oh yeah? I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Seeing me up on stage playing a brilliant flute?” he scoffs, pushing a hand through his hair. “Don’t know that would get you much attention, love, going home with the flute player.”

“It’s a lovely instrument.” Darcy leans back in her seat as Lupin returns to the sofa. She crosses her right leg over her left, flattening her dress. “And who said I’d be going home with you at all?”

“That’s just it, isn’t it? How could you resist the sheer sex appeal of me playing the flute?”

Darcy laughs out loud, and Lupin continues, teasing her, making her laugh and smile. They’ve done this a thousand times, she thinks, nights like this—nights where there was no tension between them, no awkward cloud hanging over them. It reminds her of Hogwarts, of her best memories of him, making her laugh by the fire with clever jokes. He seemed years younger then, and seems years younger just now, as if he hasn’t a care in the world. He’s the perfect gentleman, careful to flatter her only in the kindest ways, ways that make Darcy blush. And while they haven’t quite been very good at staying away from each other, Darcy feels there is an intimacy present in the room that has been lacking whenever they’ve slept together the past few months, or in their behavior towards each other. This is something else, she thinks. This is the Remus Lupin she’d met at Hogwarts, the Professor Lupin she’d come to fall in love with like some stupid little schoolgirl.

They both continue to drink, and Darcy quite enjoys it without him pestering her about her drinking habits. With each glass, their cheeks become more flushed, her face very warm. It’s so easy to talk to him like this, so easy to tell him innocent and harmless secrets, so easy to tease him and carry playful banter with him. She wishes it could be like this all the time, that Lupin could always be so boyish and funny and sweet. It’s hard to believe that he’s been anything other than this in the past week.

“Ah, listen . . . this was my parents’ wedding song.” Lupin raises his eyebrows, pausing to allow the song to be heard. “My mum used to sing it to me.”

“How do you even know what they’re saying? It’s not even in English.”

“It’s French, and you don’t have to know what she’s saying. It’s still beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is,” Darcy whispers, listening to the music for a little longer. Now that he’s said something, Darcy can recognize the language—the same pretty, fluid, graceful language that the students from Beauxbatons had spoken in. “I like it.”

“Should I get another bottle?” he asks, motioning towards their empty glasses.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“I like the way you look at me when you’re drunk.”

“And how is that?”

Lupin traces his tongue with his teeth, thinking. “Like you’re going to jump me.”

“Please,” Darcy replies, holding a hand to her heart in mock outrage. “I would never do anything so wicked.”

He smirks, looking pleased with himself. Darcy admires the way he draws himself up, puffing his chest out slightly. “Don’t move from that spot, kitten,” he murmurs, getting to his feet again. “I’ll be right back.”

They drink and they drink and they drink some more until Lupin’s forehead is damp with sweat and Darcy feels so good, a drunk she hasn’t felt in some time. They smoke and share cigarettes, their feet bumping every so often, knees touching when Lupin bends forward to refill her glass, a distracted hand on her thigh. Little things that set her heart to thumping painfully, little affection she hadn’t realized she so desperately craved. Hours pass like this, flying by with an unprecedented quickness. And with each hour (or maybe even every half hour), their positions change. Lupin pulls her legs into his lap, his fingers tracing the curve of her calf distractedly; another hour, he pulls Darcy almost into his lap so she’s able to lay against his chest, looking up at him while he speaks, his fingers combing through her hair, always glancing at her red, red lips. He puts her head in his lap, to continue to stroking of her hair, never looking away from her.

“Do you want to dance?” Lupin asks her after a while, and Darcy stutters out an incoherent answer, making him laugh. “Come on, love.” He holds out his hand, rising slowly to his feet.

“Right now?” He pulls her up from the sofa. “I’m too drunk to dance.”

He chooses to ignore this, instead, placing a strong hand on the small of her back, taking her left hand in his right. Darcy hesitates, laying her free hand gently upon his shoulder. “Why are you nervous?” he whispers, his lips brushing against her hair.

“I don’t know,” she answers breathlessly, truthfully. Is it possible he can hear the beating of her heart? Or are her nerves plain written in her face?

“It’s only me.”

“That’s why I’m so nervous, I think.”

“Do I have such an effect on you?”

Darcy rests her cheek against his shoulder, closing her eyes. “You’ve no idea the effect you have on me.”

“To some degree, I do understand, I think.” Lupin smiles against her hair. “It’s why you didn’t immediately hit me when I said such cruel things to you.”

“It was only because someone already had banged up your face enough,” she retorts quickly, hoping that this will not transition into another nasty argument. “You’ve been through a lot. That was your free pass, just don’t do it again.”

“I have no intention to.” They continue to dance for a moment, the heat radiating off him in waves. “How drunk are you, Darcy?”

“Am I still coherent?”

“Relatively.”

“Then not drunk enough, I think.” Darcy nuzzles her cheek against him, eyes still closed tight. “We still have some left of the bottle if you want me nice and drunk.”

“On the contrary, I’d rather have you coherent. It would be a real shame if I told you now how much I missed you while I was gone, only for you to forget in the morning.” His voice is low in her ear, and Darcy is suddenly reminded that she’s not wearing underwear. She aches for him, drunk enough to want him to touch her now, here, uncaring of who may still be awake. “You won’t forget, will you?”

“No promises,” Darcy teases. “But you can always tell me again, can’t you?”

“I felt like a king among common men some nights,” he admits softly, lips still right beside her ear. “The knowledge that we had been happy together . . . that I had given you things they could not . . . all while they wanted after you . . . desired you.”

“Were we happy together?” Darcy opens her eyes, not daring to look into his face.

“I was.” Lupin is quiet for a moment. “I know you’ve been frustrated with me. I know what you want, and I haven’t been able to give that to you.”

Darcy feels herself flush. “I just want your company.” She lifts her head to look at him finally. “I’m not trying to rush you into anything, believe me, Remus.”

“I believe you.” He smiles kindly down at her. “You’ve been a good girl, kitten. I’m sorry. The way they spoke of you, I—I hate to picture their mangy hands on you, your body under theirs. It’s all I can picture, and it’s gruesome and debasing and I can’t touch you while thinking of such horrifying things. I can’t. I care about you, and it disgusts me.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“I owe you an explanation, don’t I? I owe you many, but this one . . . you’ve been so sweet to me this past week despite the . . . _massive_ prick I’ve been. I wanted to do something to thank you, to show you that I am grateful, that I care about you.”

“I would have been happy with a simple thank you,” Darcy smiles, wrapping both of her arms around his neck. “You didn’t have to be so grand.”

“But you’ve enjoyed it, haven’t you?” Lupin asks, looking too smug for his own good.

“I have. Thank you.”

Lupin wraps both arms around her waist, pulling her as close as he can. Darcy’s chest presses hard against Lupin’s, their faces very close. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he breathes, not bothering to hide the fact he’s staring very hard at her mouth. “But I am rather fond of you, Darcy.”

“Are you?” Darcy asks innocently, raising an eyebrow.

“I am.” He buries his face in the crook of her neck, breathing deeply against her skin. Darcy feels both his hands on the small of her back again, firm and strong, and they begin to travel lower. In a deep and husky voice, a voice that sends chills down her spine, Lupin speaks into her skin. “Have you been wet for me all night, love?”

Darcy blushes furiously, sure that she’s like to burst into flames at any moment. She doesn’t even know how to respond—his question has stunned her into complete, humiliated silence.

He places a kiss on the crook of her neck, teeth grazing her skin. “I can smell it,” he growls, making Darcy’s heart nearly stop. And then Lupin chuckles, making her smile. “And here I was, trying to be the perfect gentleman . . . and then you come downstairs, looking so bloody beautiful that I can hardly keep my hands to myself . . . this was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

While he isn’t unkind about it, Darcy still can’t shake the feeling of shame that has hold of her.

“Don’t be embarrassed, love. In fact, I’m feeling rather tired. Perhaps you could walk me upstairs?”

Finally, Darcy manages to rasp an, “All right.”

Lupin extinguishes the candles and fire, turns the music off, but leaves everything else. Holding her hand tight, Lupin leads them quickly, albeit drunkenly, through the house, sneaking up the stairs as if hiding his new girlfriend from his parents. Darcy is teeming with anticipation, her hands trembling. Why is the prospect of sleeping with him now so terrifying? Why has this entire night made her feel so young again, and awkward? So inadequate, so undeserving of this kindness he’s just shown her; so inexperienced compared to him, years on her that he’s spent in the company of probably many other women.

He closes the door of his bedroom behind them, trapping them in the darkness. The full moon is still a little over a week away, but it currently provides enough light to find her way to the bed. Lupin lights the lamps instead, looking her up and down unabashedly.

Darcy wraps her arms around herself protectively, unsure of why this is all so scary. She still isn’t quite sure, either, if it’s horrifying that Lupin could smell her arousal, or if it’s slightly . . . appealing. He approaches her slowly, pushing her gently onto the bed. Kneeling before her, Lupin’s hand finds her face, the backs of his fingers touching her cheeks, her jaw, fingertips trailing down her throat. He touches the half-inch of violent scarring that’s showing due to the way the dress has shifted, the few tiny scars on her neck and in the crook where his teeth have marked her, scars that Darcy has always passed off with such stupid stories. He traces the neckline of her dress, finally tugging gently at the lacing in the front, revealing much more of her chest than was visible three seconds ago.

She keeps her legs closed tight, feeling ashamed of herself. Darcy knows that very soon, Lupin will realize this is what she wanted, that she’d expected this of him. Maybe he’ll feel hurt that she’d thought him obligated to sleep with her. He presses his lips to the skin just above the neckline of her dress as the laces come completely undone. “Remus,” Darcy says in a hoarse voice as he continues to kiss the warm skin of her chest.

“Hm?”

“Will you kiss me?”

He obeys immediately, pressing his lips to hers as if he couldn’t have done it fast enough. After a moment, Lupin pulls away, placing his hands on either of her knees and spreading her legs apart in order to move closer. It’s then that he notices, as her dress rides up, a groan of longing escaping his lips. His pushes her dress up higher, lowering himself to place the softest kissing on the insides of her thighs, so close to her aching core that Darcy arches her back, hoping to draw him closer.

“Is that what you want, love?” he asks, pressing his lips to her thigh again. “You want me to touch you?”

Darcy inhales deeply. “ _Yes_.”

But instead of continuing, Lupin straightens up as much as he can, looking curiously at her. Darcy tries not to look at his lips, but they’re so close to hers. “You’re shaking,” he breathes, seemingly trying to stifle a smile. “Why are you so nervous, Darcy? Do you not want to do this?”

She swallows hard, blushing. “I just . . . I just want to be perfect for you.”

The small smile on Lupin’s face fades, his brow furrowing, lips slightly parted. He holds her face in his hands again, thumbs brushing across her jutting cheekbones. “Darcy, what makes you think I would ever look at you and not think you’re perfect?”

Darcy can’t seem to find a suitable answer for this question. The way he asks it, so genuine and so honest and so gentle, makes her wonder how she could have thought herself imperfect at all. “I don’t know.”

“Love, listen, I—”

“Call me kitten,” she breathes.

Another small smile flickers across his face. “ _Kitten_ , listen,” Lupin whispers, rubbing her cheeks with his thumb again. “I don’t want you to feel nervous around me. We’re rather familiar with each other by now, don’t you think?”

Darcy nods slowly. She covers the hands on her face with her own hands, feeling slightly more nervous than she had before. Lupin seems to notice this, continues to smile at her, and leans in very slowly, the tip of his nose bumping against hers, lips hovering inches from hers. Darcy holds her breath, letting her eyes flutter closed as he kisses her soft, as if kissing her for the first time.

“You all right?” he murmurs, pulling away.

“Yeah, I’m all right.”

He kisses Darcy’s lips again, this time much harder and much more hurried, hands working furiously at her necklace, taking her hair out of her braid and letting it fall over her shoulders in loose waves. She expects his touch to be rough and greedy and hungry and possessive, especially after the way he’s been acting the past week, yet Lupin is anything but. From the way he unzips her dress and helps her out of it, to the way her lowers the straps of her bra to pepper her shoulders in kisses, from the way he touches her between the legs, to the way he kisses up and down her neck, his touches are tender and sensitive and so like the first time they’d ever done anything like this.

Darcy stops him when he takes his undershirt off, looking at him and smiling. His lips are smeared with lipstick, looking like a handsome clown. His hair is sticking up on end from her fingers combing through it over and over again. She’s been dreaming of this for a week—for longer, if she’s telling the truth—and even now, her desire to care for Lupin, to love him, to leave him with no doubt for how much she loves him, is so strong. Darcy pushes him into his back, his head against the pillow, her legs on either side of his waist.

“A beautiful sight,” Lupin sighs, running his fingers up her sides. “Did you think of me at all while I was gone?”

“All the time.” Darcy bends down to kiss his chest. “Only you, my love.”

He utters another guttural groan as her lips touch skin. “Good answer.”

His gentility does not extend to the way he pounds into her that night, making her cry out for him, thankful for the privacy a few waves of his wand has given them. Lupin insists on looking her in the face, pinning her down onto the bed, kissing her deeply when he isn’t too busy examining every minute detail of her face, his breath hot as he pants against her lips. Darcy’s immediate reaction to the violent waves of pleasure that continue to roll over her is almost to cry—to cry because she is so utterly, completely in love, but instead of sobs that leave her, it is only soft moans, her ragged breath coming in sharp gasps. Looking at him with his pupils blown out, sweating slightly, Darcy swears she could drown in him.

Darcy writhes and squirms on the bed beneath him, one leg hooked around him, the other half hanging off the side of the bed. Each time he slams into her, the headboard hits the wall violently, which would surely alert the entire house to their activities had there not been spells put in place beforehand. Lupin slides his long fingers into her mouth, burying his face in her chest as his pace becomes more irregular, harder, so much so that Darcy almost feels that her organs will be very out of place still in the morning. He pushes his fingers deeper into her mouth when he finishes, nearly whining her name against her sweaty skin— _Darcy, Darcy, Darcy_. He swears under his breath, staying still for a moment, staying very still inside of her, kissing the sharp line of her jaw.

After a minute of catching their breaths, Lupin pulls out of her, and the two of them laugh breathlessly, nervously, as if what they’ve just done is something incredibly reckless and wrong. Darcy’s just happy to see him smiling, especially at her, especially hovering above her face, smiling against her lips as he kisses her with that ridiculous lipstick stain on his own mouth.

 _God, let me have children, and I’ll never ask for anything ever again_ , she prays, kissing his hard shoulders. Lupin settles beside her, extinguishing the lamps, turning to face her and smiling. _God, let me have children. Let me know what it is to be real mother._

Darcy combs her fingers through his hair. He peppers her face with scratchy kisses, making her laugh and giggle like a little girl. “Stop moving,” he growls against her skin, a throaty laugh escaping his own lips. “Quit squirming, love, I’m trying to kiss you.”

_God, let me have children._

Darcy stills, raising her eyebrows at him expectantly, panting. “Much better,” he says with a cheeky grin, kissing her lips. When he pulls away, his white teeth flash at her in the darkness. “It’s good to be back, my love.”

_God, let them be his._

* * *

The urge to use the toilet is what makes Darcy stir the next morning, far too early for her liking. The bed and Lupin’s arms are warm, and she doesn’t want to leave the warmth. “Remus,” she whispers, trying to wriggle out of his hold. “ _Remus_.”

“Stop moving so much,” he rasps, kissing the top of her spine. “Why do you keep squirming?”

“I need you to let go of me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Remus, I have to pee.”

“It’s early,” he murmurs against her back. “Would you like a bath?”

Darcy hesitates. “With you?”

“No, with the bloke next door.”

“Are you going to cuddle me in there?” Darcy sighs, his arms tightening around her. “Keep me warm?”

Lupin nips at the skin on her shoulder blade, smiling against her skin. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

Darcy dresses quickly, hoping that no one else is awake to watch her walk shamefully to the bathroom in her dress so early in the morning. As she reaches the door of the bathroom, Darcy wonders if she dares just run over to her room for some clothes . . . she listens carefully, blushing despite being quite alone, and makes a mad dash for her closed bedroom door.

The bed is empty, and Darcy’s very thankful. She grabs a few things and retreats quickly, making her way back to the bathroom and just opening the door when several things happen at once. Strong, bare arms encircle her waist, Lupin spins her around to face him, and he kisses her hard, pulling away only at the sound of a door shutting outside the bathroom and the sound of the floor creaking underneath someone’s feet. They poke their head out the door to see who’s there, stunned into silence.

Sirius and Gemma are walking down the hallway, towards Darcy’s bedroom, Gemma still in her day clothes and looking only half-awake. Sirius, with a hand on the small of her back, looks distinctly ruffled, in a long sleeved shirt with a few burn holes in it and an awkward look on his face when he sees Darcy and Lupin.

“Morning, Sirius,” Lupin says, making Gemma jump as she reaches for the doorknob. “Morning, Gemma.”

“Good morning,” Gemma says sweetly, clearing her throat and looking at Sirius. “Good night, then?”

“Yeah,” Darcy replies, sharing a sideways look with Lupin. “It was all right. You?”

Pausing for a few moments, Gemma stands up straight. “It was all right.” She looks Darcy up and down, raising her eyebrows in a very knowing way, and then her eyes come to rest upon Lupin’s bare chest, marked with fresh love bites.

“What are you doing, Moony?” Sirius asks, narrowing his eyes as he surveys the scene before him—a half naked Lupin with one foot in the bathroom, a protective hand placed upon Darcy’s back.

“What are _you_ doing, Padfoot?”

Sirius only looks at him. Darcy notices a flush creep up Lupin’s neck and he chuckles awkwardly. Just his appearance makes it plain what he and Darcy have been doing—the skin his mouth is still stained pink from Darcy’s lipstick, his hair standing up in the back from having Darcy’s fingers take hold of it so often during the night.

“Just going to take a bath,” Lupin answers, eyes flicking to Darcy again.

“The fuck you are,” Sirius retorts bluntly, and Lupin blinks in surprise. “Not with my goddaughter, you’re not.”

“ _Sirius_ ,” Darcy mutters, blushing brilliantly and making Gemma smile. “Gemma . . . could I have a word with you? In private? Alone? Away from them?” She gestures subtly towards both Lupin and Sirius.

“Sure, Darcy.” Gemma smiles at Sirius, raises her eyebrows once more at Lupin, and retreats into Darcy’s bedroom with Darcy right on her heels, slamming the door in Sirius’ face. “Were you too in a hurry to get his clothes off you didn’t plan for the walk of shame the next morning?”

“Fucking hell, Gemma,” Darcy whispers, red in the face, trying to keep her voice quiet for Gemma’s sake, just because she loves her, just because she’s still a little shocked at what she’d just witnessed. “I told you my godfather was off limits!”

“I thought that rule was just for Em,” Gemma answers, chuckling lightly, as if this is all just some misunderstanding. Feeling fiercely protective of the godfather who has been alone for over a decade, Darcy bristles, shaking her head.

“No,” she says wildly, still speaking as if the boys are listening at the door (and she doesn’t doubt they are). “I _definitely_ meant that as a blanket statement—”

“Come on, Darcy,” Gemma interrupts, running a hand through her knotted hair. The smile on her face is infuriating, as if she’s done nothing wrong, as if Darcy is out of line. But there’s nothing malicious or angry about her expression, so Darcy can’t even be mad about it. “The guy had a hard-on for me half the night, and he hasn’t been laid in nearly fifteen years. If you ask me, I was doing him a favor.”

“Jesus Christ!” Darcy hisses, running her hands through her hair. “Gemma, you fucking prat—you’re on his family tree—you’re related to him—”

“ _Distantly_ ,” Gemma corrects her, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and sticking one in between Darcy’s lips, likely to try and shut her up. When Gemma lights it, she takes advantage of the silence as Darcy takes a long, grateful pull. “Purebloods have been doing it for hundreds of years. Any boy my parents would have me marry probably shares more blood with me than Sirius and I do.”

Darcy isn’t sure how to respond to this. Gemma looks far too casual about the whole thing, and she lights her own cigarette, seemingly waiting patiently for Darcy’s next argument.

“If it makes you feel any better, I had a very hard time looking at the pictures on his wall,” Gemma confesses, shrugging her shoulders. “The one of you and Sirius, then the one of him and his mates in school. I felt like both you and Lupin were shaming me every time I looked at you.”

“Good,” Darcy says coldly, taking another long drag of her cigarette. “Though I’m sure you don’t feel any shame, do you?”

Gemma lets out a bark of laughter. “Look, here’s the thing, Darcy. Lupin asked me to distract Sirius, and I did. It’s not my fault that you’ve got a good-looking godfather, it’s not my fault that he had a hard-on for me, and it’s not my fault that Sirius couldn’t keep his hands to himself. I gave you the alone time that you wanted, didn’t I? What were you trying to do to Lupin, anyway? The state of his chest—”

“Shut up,” Darcy snaps, rubbing her temples. “ _Christ_ , Gemma . . . how could you sleep with Sirius? I mean . . . do you have no conscience?”

“I do, and funnily enough, it speaks with your voice,” Gemma grins, putting her cigarette out dramatically in the glass ashtray on the nightstand.

“Well, you should listen to it next time!”

“Do you know how hard it was for me to have to look at a picture of my best friend’s dad, my best friend’s godfather, my best friend’s boyfriend, and that arsehole, Peter Pettigrew, while I’m trying to have a good fucking time?” Gemma opens her arms, as if expecting an answer. “The half-naked girls on the walls I could handle, but . . . the pictures probably don’t bother him anymore. I suppose he’s likely trained himself not to look at them while he’s having a wank.”

Darcy is quiet, attempting to give Gemma her most disappointed look, one she typically saves for Harry. “I don’t even know what to say to you.”

“You should be thanking me,” Gemma says, crossing her arms over her chest, the corners of her lips still upturned. “You fuck him last night?”

“Yeah,” Darcy answers sheepishly, trying to maintain her dignity. She certainly isn’t ashamed of sleeping with Lupin—on the contrary, Darcy’s eager to leave the room to do it again.

“Was it because you weren’t wearing any underwear?” Gemma asks innocently, cocking her eyebrow in a significant fashion.

“It’s not like I flashed him first thing upon walking down the stairs,” Darcy tells Gemma, hands on her hips. “He didn’t notice until we were nearly there.”

“So it helped?” Gemma waits expectantly for an answer, but when she receives none, she laughs. “Gods, Darcy, you look like my mum. Quit looking at me like that, would you?”

“No!” Darcy protests. “You could use a bit of slapping around right now, couldn’t you?”

“Now you _sound_ like my mum,” Gemma continues, rolling her eyes. There’s a short pause as Darcy struggles with speech. “Well . . . how was it?”

Darcy exhales loudly, still whispering. “Fucking brilliant. A spiritual experience, as always.” They both laugh breathlessly. “Don’t ever tell me how it was sleeping with Sirius. I don’t care, and I don’t want to know.”

“You don’t want to know? You’re not the least bit curious?” Gemma asks slyly, a mischievous grin on her face. “Sirius isn’t even related to you . . . he’s not really blood family, so what’s the harm, right?”

“He’s close enough that I’ve no wish to hear the dirty details,” Darcy snaps, quickly putting an end to it before Gemma starts giving her details that’ll keep her up at night for weeks.

“Oh, _fine_ . . . who am I going to tell? Em would kill me,” Gemma sighs, still smiling as she trails after Darcy towards the door. “But you will tell me everything later, won’t you?”

Darcy scoffs. “If you’re good.”


	56. Chapter 56

“Thank you, love.” Lupin looks up from the piece of parchment he’d been studying to smile at Darcy as she places a steaming cup of tea beside him. He kisses her cheek and sighs heavily and tiredly, taking a sip as Darcy rests her cheek against his shoulder, looking down at the parchment.

“What are these? Plans to what building?” Darcy asks curiously, tracing the lines with her finger. “Looking into a career change? Architecture suddenly strike your fancy?”

“Just in case being a trophy wife to Darcy Potter or being the token werewolf in the Order doesn’t work out, thought I might have a backup.”

The blueprints are detailed, looking to have been sketched several times. None of the rooms or corridors are labeled, and Darcy notices there are many, many doors—more doors than probably necessary. They make Darcy slightly nervous. “What are you planning? Not something dangerous, I hope?”

“Of course not. What do you think I am? A danger-seeking fool?” He smiles toothily at her again, and Darcy knows better than to press him for a real answer. Lupin takes another drink of tea, raising his eyebrows. “Gemma at work? Or is there another reason I’m lucky enough to have you waiting on me?”

“She’s at work,” Darcy answers, lifting Lupin’s arm to drape it over her shoulders. “What do you think about it all? Gemma and Sirius?”

“Truthfully?”

“No,” Darcy replies, scoffing. “Please, lie to me.”

Lupin chuckles, lowering his tea and shrugging. “Nothing’s going to come of it, Darcy. Sirius doesn’t know the first thing about being in a proper relationship, and Gemma isn’t fool enough to carry on with Sirius Black, the disowned blood-traitor.” When she doesn’t answer, he squeezes her closer. “They were just having a bit of fun, love, and if truth be told, it was nice to be the one doing the chastising instead of being the chastised.”

“You didn’t,” Darcy says, unable to hide a smile.

“Only briefly,” Lupin confesses. “All in good fun, of course.”

“It’s curious, isn’t it?” she continues, and Lupin hums, distractedly looking over the plans with a glazed look about him. “Gemma is everything Sirius hates, don’t you think?”

“I disagree,” he answers gently, placing his teacup on a corner of the parchment to keep it flat against the table. “I think Sirius and Gemma are quite similar, don’t you?” Darcy merely shrugs, quite content with being pressed against his body. “Besides, if you had undergone fifteen years of celibacy, would you or would you not be a bit more flexible regarding who you sleep with?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Lupin laughs softly, kissing the top of her head. “If Gemma were in school with us all those years ago, I don’t know that Sirius wouldn’t chase after her. She was just his type at that age,” he explains. “Though, maybe we should be celebrating that Gemma wasn’t at school with us. She would have broken his heart.”

“And what about me?” Darcy teases, looking up at him and nearly swooning at the sight of how soft his face looks when he meets her eyes. “Would you have chased after me if I went to school with you?”

“Hypothetically . . .” Lupin says slowly, smiling wider. “Yes, I’m sure I would have fancied you, though I’m not sure I would have _chased_ after you.”

Darcy frowns, pouting with her bottom lip. Lupin half-groans and half-laughs, looking away from her. “You wouldn’t have?”

“Don’t do that to me, Darcy . . . the damn puppy dog eyes . . . I’m a grown man, I should be immune to that.” Lupin gives his shaggy hair a shake before pushing it back out of his eyes. “You know very well why I wouldn’t have chased after you.”

“Because you’re frightened of pretty girls?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Lupin snorts, looking back down at the parchment. He turns his face again when he finds her still watching him. “Admiring the view, love?”

“Hoping I’ll get lucky enough for a kiss before someone wanders in here to embarrass us.”

Lupin raises an eyebrow. “All you had to do was say so.” And without hesitation, he kisses her hard on the mouth, wrapping both of his arms around her waist as Darcy’s snake around his neck. It takes the breath away from her and she can hardly breathe as his hands make their slow progress towards her face. Darcy opens her mouth, allowing him to deepen the kiss, his tongue brushing swiftly against hers—

“Darcy?”

A sudden voice that is not Lupin’s makes Darcy jump a foot off the ground, setting her heart to pounding triple its normal speed. Once she regains her breath, Darcy realizes she recognizes the voice that’s called her name, and her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Lupin releases her, turning around wildly to check for the source of the voice.

“Harry?” Darcy asks, taking a few steps towards the fire. She grabs Lupin by the hand and drags him over to the fire, where they both kneel before Harry’s head, swimming in the flames. It takes a moment for the shock to settle, and the initial embarrassment of Harry bearing witness to the sloppy scene she and Lupin had just presented him. “What are you doing here? Is everything all right?”

“Harry, do you need help?” Lupin says, his brow furrowed, looking very concerned.

“Er—” Harry seems to avoid looking into Lupin’s eyes dutifully. “Actually . . . is Sirius around?”

Darcy makes to stand, but Lupin touches her forearm, getting to his feet. “I’ll get him. He’s upstairs in the attic. Give me a moment.”

Once Lupin leaves the kitchen, there’s an awkward silence. Darcy opens her mouth to ask what fireplace he’s using, or information regarding his note, but Harry speaks first. “That was disgusting,” he says, laughing faintly as if he can’t believe what he’s just seen. “What’s he playing at? Sirius is all right with him choking you with his tongue like that?”

“You’re lucky I’m not there to smack you upside the head, Harry Potter,” Darcy jokes, leaning closer to the fire on her hands and knees. “What’s this about? You said we had to talk about something serious. Whose fire are you using right now?”

“It _is_ serious,” Harry confirms, all teasing suddenly gone completely from his voice. “But I want you all to be here to hear it at the same time. How are you, though? Are you all right? Has Max arrived yet?”

“No, not yet. Don’t worry about me,” Darcy insists, wanting to reach through the fire to comb her fingers through his hair, to kiss her little brother’s head, to hug him close to her. “I’m fine here. I’m worried about Hogwarts. What’s this about Fred and George causing mayhem?”

“What is it?” comes Sirius’ voice, and he drops to his knees on Darcy’s right. Lupin kneels again on her left, and Harry looks at Sirius with a very sad and pleading expression. “Harry, are you all right?”

“I’m okay, it’s just . . .” Harry looks sheepishly at Darcy before looking to Sirius again. “I wanted to talk about my dad.”

“Dad?” Darcy asks, before either Sirius or Lupin can say anything. She narrows her eyes at Harry, wondering what could have possibly possessed Harry to do something so stupid for the sole reason of talking about their father. “Harry, what’s going on?”

With a deep breath, Harry immediately begins his story, and as soon as he begins, Darcy feels her heart drop. He paints the scene for them quite plainly, which Darcy thinks is rather bold of him: Harry, during Occlumency lessons last Wednesday, had been left alone with nothing but Professor Snape’s memories to keep him company while Snape had been dislodging some boy from a Vanishing Cabinet who’d been missing for days. Darcy doesn’t want to believe her brother would do anything so disrespectful as delving into another man’s private and and personal memories, and when Harry tells the three of them how he had, in fact, delved into another man’s private and personal memories, Darcy feels she could faint. Rage bubbles inside of her, and if Sirius and Lupin were not beside her, she feels that she’d probably give Harry a very firm and very stern talking to. After weeks of complaining about Snape penetrating the deepest corners of his mind, complaining of Snape seeing things he doesn’t want Snape seeing, and Harry can’t be the better man—Harry has to do the same to Snape.

But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is the fact that, as Harry begins describing this memory he’d witnessed, Darcy recognizes the memory. It’s the memory that Snape had allowed her to witness—the memory that she hadn’t told anyone about, the memory that Darcy had understood as a confession from Snape, a sign of trust, a sign of love. She can’t begin to imagine how Snape would feel if he knew Harry had seen all of this. Harry steamrollers on, describing how James and Sirius had taunted Snape, how Lily had intervened, how Snape had called Lily such a foul word. Everything Harry describes is just how she remembers it to be, and to have to relive this memory—not once, but twice—makes her sick to her stomach. She wonders if Harry had been disgusted upon seeing their father act in such a way, wonders if he had felt ashamed or sorry at all, wonders if the memory has kept him up at night like it did for her.

She feels a surge of sympathy for Snape, wishing she had some way to contact him, to ask for his company. She wants to talk to him about this memory that she’s been keeping a secret for too long. She wants to hear his thoughts about it, wants to apologize for her father’s treatment of him again, wants Snape to look into her face while she’s apologizing in order for him to acknowledge it as genuine and honest. To talk about this thing that’s been building up inside of her for weeks seems somewhat freeing, and part of her is glad Harry has brought it up, saved her the sorry task of doing it herself, admitting to having seen such a thing.

When Harry finishes, Darcy finds she can’t meet Harry’s eyes. If she looks at him, she knows Harry will know this is not new information to her. Lupin looks almost nervously to his right, almost as if to gauge Darcy’s reaction, and then he speaks, slowly, unsure. “Harry, I wouldn’t like you to judge your father simply on what you saw there. He was only fifteen—”

“I’m fifteen!” Harry retorts, and Darcy forces herself to hide the proud smile that threatens to cross her face.

“Come on, Harry,” Sirius sighs, running a hand through his hair. “James and Snape hated each other from day one. James was everything Snape wasn’t—he was popular, he was good at Quidditch . . . and Snape was just . . . he was obsessed with the Dark Arts, and James hated the Dark Arts.”

“He attacked Snape for no reason,” Harry protests, albeit weakly. Darcy’s surprised that he fights all on behalf of Snape, but she lets him continue, still unable to look in his face. “Just because you said you were bored.”

“Look, Harry, I’ve told Darcy this before, as well,” Lupin says, placing a gentle, reassuring hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “Your father and Sirius were the best at everything they did, and they had a tendency to get carried away sometimes with everyone—”

“Go on, Moony, say it,” Sirius interrupts, smiling weakly across Darcy at Lupin. “We were arrogant little berks.”

“He kept messing up his hair,” Harry says, frowning.

Despite Harry’s sad delivery of this information, it makes both Sirius and Lupin laugh fondly. “Was he playing with the Snitch?” Lupin asks, leaning forward more to move closer to the fire.

“Yeah,” Harry answers slowly, looking from Sirius to Lupin and back again. “I thought he was a bit of an idiot.”

“Of course he was an idiot,” Sirius snorts, elbowing Darcy playfully. She pulls her arm away from him, but he doesn’t seem to notice anything off. “We were all idiots. Well, not Moony so much . . .”

“Did I ever have the guts to tell you you were out of order?” Lupin asks, the excitement seemingly have left him. He exchanges a quick, shameful look with Darcy, and she shrinks back slightly, feeling her stomach turn and roll violently.

Sirius rubs the back of his neck, looking mildly uncomfortable. “Yeah, well . . . you made us feel ashamed of ourselves sometimes.”

And then it seems Harry cannot keep quiet any longer. He looks about ready to burst as the words leave his mouth, and Darcy—from her peripherals—sees Harry cast her an apologetic look. “How come she married him?” he asks, his voice sounding slightly strained. “Mum hated him, and what dad said about motherhood—”

Lupin holds a hand up to stop Harry from speaking, his free hand touching Darcy’s back again. Harry quiets. “Harry, whatever James may have said to Lily about Darcy, you have to understand that James loved Darcy more than anything in the world.”

“James proved himself a very apt father, a very loving father, and once he deflated his head and stopped hexing people for the fun of it, Lily was happy to have him in her life, and in Darcy’s,” Sirius continues, flashing Darcy a warm and loving smile. “He was the best friend I ever had, and once Darcy arrived, he started to grow out of being an idiot. James was a good man, Harry, believe me.”

“Yeah, all right,” Harry says quietly, still frowning.

Lupin opens his mouth to speak, closes it, and then inhales again. “What did Snape say when he found out you’d seen all this?”

Harry rolls his eyes casually, looking rather pleased. “He said he’d never teach me Occlumency again.”

Sirius roars, pushing Darcy slightly into Lupin. Lupin seems just as outraged, but keeps himself composed a little better. He looks Darcy over curiously before tearing his eyes again and looking at Harry again. “Are you serious, Harry?”

“Yeah, but I mean—”

“I’m coming up there to have a word with Snape!” Sirius growls, pushing himself to his feet. Lupin reaches behind Darcy to grab furiously at his arm, pulling him back down to his knees and giving Sirius a warning look.

“You won’t be telling Severus anything,” Lupin says to Sirius, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. “Harry, there is nothing so important as you learning Occlumency, do you understand me? The next time Snape is here, I’ll have Darcy talk to him about starting your lessons back up. If he doesn’t want to listen to Darcy, then he can hear it from me.”

“Okay, okay,” Harry says forcefully. “Darcy, look, I didn’t mean to—did you hear that? Is Kreacher coming?”

“No,” Sirius replies, glancing over his shoulder towards the doorway. “Must be someone on your end.”

Harry’s face turns to one of panic. “I have to go!”

And just like that, he’s gone. Darcy stares at the fire for a few moments as Sirius pats her on the back and squeezes her hands and her shoulder, but Lupin looks deep in thought, stroking his chin, a crease between his eyebrows. Darcy’s heart is racing, but she doesn’t know why this entire encounter has affected her so deeply. Perhaps it’s the fact that Harry had done something so disrespectful, something that gives her such shame—after all, she hadn’t raised him like that. She knows that Harry is a curious boy, often too curious for his own good, but Harry should have known better than to look and see what Snape wanted to hide from him. Or perhaps it’s the fact that Darcy hates the memory—she hates what her father had done to Snape, hates that Sirius has stood there and cheered James on, hates that Lupin had pretended it wasn’t happening. The entire thing leaves a bad taste in her mouth, one that will never be able to be washed out.

It also explains why Snape had gone from caring for and worrying about her to cold and sneering and curt overnight. It makes perfect sense that Snape’s ego and pride would be damaged after Harry’s excursion into the Pensieve—after all, Darcy’s sure that willingly showing her his worst memory was hard enough without Harry sticking his nose in Snape’s business.

“Darcy . . .” Lupin says warily, still looking at her as if seeing her for the first time, examining her carefully. “Are you all right?”

Darcy tries to catch her breath, holding a hand to her heart. She nods at him, not trusting herself to speak. But when she meets Lupin’s eyes and he holds her gaze for a moment, something changes in his face. There’s an understanding there, as if he’s just pieced something together, but not something particularly good. She looks away quickly, momentarily hating herself, knowing Lupin knows what’s going on now.

“Here, sweetheart, sit down,” Sirius urges, not seeming to notice anything wrong. He pulls out a chair for her as Lupin helps her to her feet, pulling Darcy up by the hand and not looking away from her. “Sorry about that. Was good to see Harry again, wasn’t it? Wish it could have been for longer.”

“It was dangerous,” Lupin says shortly, rubbing his eyes violently with his palms as he begins to pace in front of Darcy. “There’s only one place he could have used the Floo Network from that isn’t being watched. Keep encouraging him like that, Sirius, and he’s going to get himself into more trouble. Have you forgotten what that woman has done to your goddaughter?”

Sirius’s eyes flash with cold anger. “I haven’t forgotten,” he snarls, glancing at Darcy’s hands. “All right, all right, I get it. You don’t need to remind me of anything, Remus.”

“Padfoot,” Remus says, clearing his throat, raising his eyebrows. He stops his pacing, crossing his arms over his chest and chewing on his lower lip. “Could Darcy and I have a word alone?”

The anger fades from Sirius’ face for a moment, Lupin’s question catching her off guard. He looks at Darcy, and when she nods, he excuses himself. But Darcy wishes he hadn’t—as soon as Sirius leaves, Darcy knows what conversation they’ll be having. The last thing she wants to talk about with Lupin is Snape, especially when he has that damn serious expression on his face, his business-like expression, his Professor Lupin face. Clearing her throat, Darcy begins to rise slowly from the chair.

“Actually, I . . . was thinking of taking a nice, hot, _long_ bath,” she says nervously, moving to take a step towards the exit, but Lupin shakes his head.

“Sit down, Darcy.”

She does as she’s told and Lupin pulls out a chair for himself, sitting directly in front of her, their knees almost touching. Darcy looks right at him, not wanting to give anything away, not wanting to look small and childish next to him. She wants to, if it comes down to it, be able to defend Snape with confidence, not be ashamed of it.

“First,” he begins softly. “I would really appreciate it if you could speak to Severus about Harry’s Occlumency lessons. If Dumbledore were here, he would never have . . .” Lupin rubs his temples in a very weary sort of way. “Well, Dumbledore isn’t here, so there’s no use wondering about what would or would not have happened. Regardless, this is something very important to Dumbledore and very important to the Order, that Harry study Occlumency. I’m asking you to do this as a favor to me . . . and I’m not asking you to do it now, when he’s still going to be angry and touchy, but when you feel the time is right. I’ll trust your judgement on that, all right?”

“Yeah,” Darcy breathes, nodding. “I can do that.”

Lupin gives her a small smile. “Thank you, love.” He leans forward in his chair, and Darcy is suddenly very uncomfortable with the professionalism in his voice when he next speaks. “You didn’t look very surprised upon hearing about Harry’s latest adventure. I’d have thought such a story would shock you, Darcy.”

“I am surprised,” she lies, but it’s hard to look into Lupin’s eyes, this man that she loves so much, and lie so boldly. Darcy has to look away, and she knows she’s given herself up by doing it. “How was I supposed to act upon hearing it?”

“Darcy,” he says again, a little firmer, acknowledging with just his tone that he knows there is more to the story. “Have you seen that memory before?”

“No,” Darcy says quickly. “How would I have possibly seen that memory before?”

Torn between exasperation and frustration, Lupin runs his hands down his face. “Why are you lying to me?”

Darcy looks into his eyes again, her heart beating very fast. “You think because you’re older than me, you’re entitled to know everything?”

“No, no—” He places his palms together, holding them in front of his face, seemingly praying to stay calm. Darcy gives him this—Lupin takes a deep breath and manages to keep his voice gentle. “ _No_. Darcy . . . I am asking you—as your friend, as someone who cares very much for you, as someone who is rather uncomfortable with Severus Snape sharing such intimate things with you—for the truth. Have you seen the memory before?”

Darcy licks her lips, sighing, keeping her temper. She does not want to fight with him now, not now. “Yes,” she rasps, blushing already. “I saw the memory.”

“All the questions you had,” Lupin frowns, and Darcy’s quite glad to see him look very uncomfortable. “You asked about James . . . and me . . . you told Sirius not to call him Snivellus . . . why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because it was private,” Darcy says. “You had no right to know. The only people it concerned was me and Professor Snape.”

“How? How did you see it?”

“Through Dumbledore’s Pensieve.”

“You know what I mean.” Lupin looks slightly pale, and he begins to fidget in his seat. His knee bounces as he holds his hands in his lap. “Why did Severus show you that memory? Why that one in particular?”

Darcy silently apologizes to Snape, hoping that Lupin will not give any future indication he knows about what she’s about to tell him. “Remus,” she whispers, feeling very nervous. She looks towards the kitchen door. “Promise me you won’t tell Sirius.”

Lupin hesitates, but nods all the same.

“Do you have your wand on you?”

Narrowing his eyes, he extracts his wand from his pocket, holding it out for her in his open palm. Darcy takes it with a quiet ‘thank you’ and points it at the door, hoping she remembers the incantation correctly.

“ _Muffliato_.”

Nothing happens, but Darcy doesn’t remember anything happening when Snape had casted the spell, either. She continues to look warily at the door as she hands Lupin his wand back, finally forcing herself to look into his eyes. They’re such a pretty color in the lighting of the kitchen, shining like gold.

“How do you know that spell?” Lupin asks, bringing Darcy back to reality.

“I heard Professor Snape use it once.” She pauses, wondering if he’ll say anything. He doesn’t. “Promise you won’t tell anyone.”

“I promise.”

“Remus, you don’t understand, Professor Snape will never speak to me again if he finds out that I’ve—”

Lupin takes her hands in his, squeezing gently. Darcy isn’t sure why she’d been so worried about Lupin getting angry with her; he’s being so kind and so gentle right now, especially when the subject matter is so sensitive. She wonders if Lupin will finally come clean with her about everything now he knows she knows what he was like as a young boy. “Darcy,” he whispers, “I won’t tell anyone, I swear it. Trust me. Do you trust me?”

Darcy shifts uncomfortably, finally nodding. “Yes.” And so she plunges into the story of how she and Snape had shared something so intimate with each other—private and emotional, memories that have helped make the both of them into the people they are now. Darcy describes the way she’d bothered Snape with her questions about he and her mother, describes the ominous way Snape had offered to show her, tells Lupin the truth about why Darcy and Snape had ventured into the memory of the night James and Lily had died. She tells him everything, and with ease; the way Snape had held her once out of her own memory, the way it had eaten at her for a long time, and the way she’d gone into Snape’s memory by herself in his office, the way she’d sprinted as far away from the Pensieve as she could afterwards. It feels so good to talk about it, and Lupin watches her the entire time, his expressions shifting with each new confession: disgust, disbelief, incredulity, surprise, suspicion, sympathy, shame. But Darcy finds herself uncomfortable letting loose on Lupin now, uncomfortable with chastising him after he just listened so patiently.

But Lupin seems to want to know anyway. “Go on, Darcy,” he says, his voice very hoarse, his face very white. It makes the pink scars on his face look slightly more pronounced, half of his face hidden by the scruff he has yet to shave. “Don’t be shy. Say what you need to say. I know you’re angry with us.”

Darcy doesn’t mean for it to start pouring out, but he’s just opened the floodgates unknowingly, and she considers apologizing in advance for what she’s about to say, but she doesn’t. “Angry?” she hisses, leaning forward in her seat. Lupin flinches as if having been slapped hard across the face. “I was _furious_. I tried to make excuses for you, I tried to make excuses for all of you because I love you all so much, and it still made me sick.”

She expects him to try and explain himself, defend himself or his friends, but Lupin only lowers his eyes to the ground.

“You sat there and let it all happen,” Darcy whispers, inches from his face. “You allowed my father and Sirius to torture Snape, as if he deserved it. Harry’s right—being boys had nothing to do with it. If you think that Harry would _ever_ —if you think _I_ would ever—”

“You’re serving up judgement based on a single memory,” Lupin tells her quietly. “A single memory from a man who hated us all, but your father most of all.”

“So you’re saying he deserved it?” Darcy asks heatedly, sitting back in her chair and folding her arms over her chest. Suddenly she feels very powerful here, sitting straight-backed in front of a sheepish looking Lupin, eyes darting all over the kitchen and only ever meeting hers for a second at a time. “You’re saying that you did the right thing by allowing it to happen?”

“Darcy, you don’t know the whole story—”

“It better be a good one for it to justify hanging a fifteen-year-old boy upside down for the entire school to see him pants-less!” Darcy retorts, raising her eyebrows. “I heard what happened. Dad did it for no other reason than because Sirius was bored and they hated Snape.”

“You have to understand what Hogwarts was like then,” Lupin says, and there’s a pleading and desperate note to his voice now. “It wasn’t like Hogwarts was when you went there. The war was upon us all, in full force during those days, and people like Severus weren’t just . . .” He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for what he’s going to say. “Can’t you think of anyone who deserves something like that?”

“No,” Darcy replies coldly, without even considering the question.

Lupin cocks an eyebrow. “Not Draco Malfoy, or Umbridge?” he asks casually. “Not even Peter?”

Darcy tenses. “That’s different. Peter is different.”

“Peter became what Severus and all his other friends became,” Lupin continues, his voice still soft. “Death Eaters. Whatever Severus shows you or tells you or feels for you, it doesn’t erase that fact. I’m not saying he’s still a Death Eater, I’m not saying that we shouldn’t trust him, but a lot of time has gone by between then and now. A lot happened between then and now, and you were not there to witness it.”

Feeling an aching in her heart, Darcy holds her face in her hands. She hates herself for not being more angry with Lupin, hates herself for not shouting at him for what he allowed his friends—her father—to do.

“Darcy, you heard what Severus called your mother—”

“He was humiliated!” Darcy interrupts, lowering her hands from her face.

Lupin inhales loudly, clenching his jaw and looking at her for a long time. “I know that you have been struggling with your feelings for a long time now about Severus, and I know that you are more than aware of what is branded on his arm. But you mustn’t let his biased view of your father turn you against him, against Sirius. Against _me_. If I thought your father was a bad man, I would have said so.”

Darcy shakes her head. “You were bullies.”

“No more so than Severus and his friends. James didn’t use Dark Magic against his enemies, James didn’t treat people any differently based on the quantity of magical blood running through their veins. James opened his home to Sirius, didn’t think any differently of me when he found out what I was hiding from him, didn’t think any differently of your mother because she was Muggleborn.” Lupin looks like a defeated man, pained and embarrassed. “I should have said something, and I regret it. I let it happen because I was afraid to stand up to the only friends I had. I’m sorry, Darcy. I’m sorry you had to see that . . . but that memory does not reflect the man I knew James to be. That memory is one in a million, and James would be very upset if he knew that his only daughter was basing her ideal of him off a skewed, out of context memory.”

Unable to look at him any longer, Darcy turns her head and closes her eyes, hoping he’ll stand up and leave. She wants to scream at him, to tell him off, to stand up and leave. But all of her resolve crumbles whenever she glances at him, whenever she sees the guilt on his face.

“Darcy,” Lupin whispers, holding out a hand for her. “Come here. Please.”

Darcy wipes her watery eyes with her sleeve, looking up at him. “What?”

“Come here,” he urges quietly, beckoning her closer.

She takes his hand, his fingers wrapping around hers and squeezing like a vice. Being rather close already, Darcy doesn’t move, but Lupin tugs gently at her hand, coercing her into his lap. Blushing, Darcy settles herself lightly in his lap, sighing as she looks anywhere but in his eyes. Damn him, she thinks as she touches his chest, runs her fingers over his shoulders. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she tells him.

“All right, then we won’t talk about it anymore,” Lupin replies, but judging from his tone, he isn’t satisfied with how much they’ve spoken about it. He touches her chin with his index finger, tilting her head back to see her face. “Darcy, promise me there is nothing going on between you and Severus.”

Darcy sighs again. “I promise.” She takes hold of his wrist, lowering his hand from her face and sliding off his lap. “Are you mad at me?”

It looks to cost Lupin all of his energy to say the word, “No.”

Nodding, Darcy bites down on her bottom lip. “Are we okay?”

He gives a resigned nod. “Yeah, we’re okay.”

Darcy smiles weakly, bending over to kiss him softly and sweetly. Brushing his hair out of his face, Darcy leaves him sitting in the kitchen, alone.

* * *

“. . . my God . . . look at you . . . and here I thought Darcy Potter pretty . . . but _you_ . . .”

“I’m standing right here, Phineas,” Darcy scowls, crossing her arms over her chest and blushing fiercely.

“Excellent posture . . . even when you’re pouting, it seems . . . the eyes . . . those are Smythe eyes.”

Phineas Nigellus doesn’t even seem  
to hear her, his eyes traveling hungry up and down Gemma’s body. She has yet to speak to the vile little portrait, and she looks as if she has no desire to. Gemma’s arms cover her chest, as well, her bony hip bone jutting out to one side, one of her eyebrows raised, looking apathetic and bored. It hadn’t taken much to get Gemma up here, truthfully—all Darcy had to do was ask, and Gemma had agreed.

“You definitely have the Smythe look about you,” Phineas confirms, stroking his dark facial hair, lounging in the throne-like chair against the backdrop of his portrait. “The Blacks and Smythes have always had a friendly relationship, stretching all the way back to the days of my great-great-great—”

“I’m very familiar with my family history. I didn’t come here for a lesson in genealogy,” Gemma says, and her tone is uncharacteristically cold and curt. Darcy looks sideways at her, long enough to see the anger and impatience flashing in Gemma’s dark eyes. Guilt gnaws at Darcy’s insides, realizing how stupid this idea was. “What do you want, Phineas?”

“I wanted to see you with my own eyes, of course,” Phineas says smoothly, and Darcy frowns, knowing that if she spoke to Phineas that way, he would have left his portrait. “I’ve heard rumors, of course, and I needed to put a face to you. Working at St Mungo’s, befriending Potters and werewolves and blood-traitors . . . what are you playing at, Smythe? Your parents would die of shock on the spot if they knew what you’ve really been up to, wouldn’t they?”

Gemma doesn’t say or do anything, and Phineas sneers.

“Are you familiar with the Smythe family, Darcy Potter?” Phineas asks.

“I—” Darcy looks quickly at Gemma, who betrays no hint of emotion in her face. “I don’t know.”

“The Smythes are an old and powerful and rich family,” Phineas continues, smirking at Gemma. “The women were always very beautiful, and the men always very powerful wizards. The Smythes were well-connected, well-liked . . . does your family still live at Smythe Manor?”

Gemma doesn’t answer, a muscle jumping in her jaw. Darcy touches her arm and turns slightly so Phineas can’t read her lips. “Gemma, we don’t have to listen to this,” she whispers, but she isn’t sure Gemma is listening; Gemma’s eyes are still fixed imperiously upon Phineas Nigellus’ clever face. “Forget it. Let’s go downstairs.”

“Do you want your information or not?” Gemma asks, loud enough for Phineas to hear.

“I can get my information from somewhere else . . .” Darcy breathes in Gemma’s ear. “Come on.”

“No,” Gemma says in a very powerful and commanding voice. Darcy releases her grip on Gemma’s arm, turning slowly back towards the portrait. “Yes, my family still lives at Smythe Manor.”

“Phineas, just tell us what’s going on at Hogwarts,” Darcy pleads, in her sweetest voice, but it does sound strained. “Leave Gemma alone.”

“I remember many of your relatives,” Phineas sighs, standing up and pacing back and forth, left and right, in his picture frame. There’s a smug look to him that Darcy mislikes, but Gemma is careful not to be too obvious for her dislike of him. “Greta Smythe, for instance. What was she famous for again? Ah . . . that’s right . . . Miss Potter, in case you didn’t know, Miss Smythe’s great-great-great grandmother was famous for her monthly hunts. Remember what they hunted, Miss Smythe?”

Gemma’s eyes are cold, almost black. “I’m well aware of what they hunted.”

Phineas’ eyes fall upon Darcy. “Werewolves. Every evening before the full moon rose, Greta Smythe would set free four or five men and women out into the forest, and the hunting party would venture out at midnight.”

Darcy tries to catch Gemma’s eye, feeling sick to her stomach. Gemma refuses to look away from the portrait.

“Cassiopeia Smythe . . . remember her? In her day, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Men lined up to ask for her hand . . . and then her husband—her first one, mind you, for she had about six of them—found out what was in the cellar. Gemma, what was in the cellar? Oh . . . it must have slipped my mind . . .”

“I know what was in the cellar, Phineas.”

“See, Potter, Cassiopeia Smythe hated Muggles. But being so beautiful, it was easy for her to wander around a small, filthy Muggle suburb and lure them back to her home.” Phineas raises his eyebrows, shrugging his shoulders. “Muggles that went down into the cellar never came back up.”

“Gemma,” Darcy murmurs, turning again to hide her face from Phineas. She tugs in Gemma’s sleeve, but Gemma pushes Darcy’s hand away.

“And your namesake . . . Gemma Ava Smythe . . . your great-great-great-great aunt. In Azkaban for the murder of her husband after he killed her favorite house-elf. A gruesome thing it was, too. The husband’s murder, anyway . . . well, you could argue both . . .” Phineas snorts, seemingly enjoying himself far too much. “See, Darcy, the house-elf . . . it was a simple Killing Curse, and Gemma’s husband threw the body from the highest balcony in the manor. All mangled when they found it, I heard. And Gemma’s husband’s body was found three days later, cut up like a Christmas ham and stuffed in the ice chest. I don’t think they ever found his right hand, isn’t that right? She went to Azkaban easily enough . . . died there not six months later. I suppose the grief drove her mad in the end along with the dementors. You must be very proud to carry her name.”

“Fuck you, Phineas.” Gemma’s facial expression hasn’t changed in the slightest, but she spits the words at him with such venom that Darcy’s never heard before.

To Darcy’s great surprise, Phineas Nigellus laughs. It’s a sarcastic and mocking laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “Your parents must be very proud of you,” he sneers. “What would poor Greta say if she knew her distant granddaughter was trying to pave a way for werewolves to have a normal life? Do your parents know that you spend your nights abed with Darcy Potter? Haven’t you learned by now what being a rebel means?”

Gemma swallows loudly.

“Darcy? Gemma?”

“Where are you girls?”

Sirius and Lupin’s heavy footsteps sound above them, scurrying in and out of rooms. Gemma ignores them, and Darcy glances nervously towards the door. This isn’t what she had in mind upon bringing Gemma in here; Darcy feels close to tears, as if this is her fault—it _is_ her fault that Gemma must listen to this.

“You don’t deserve a place upon the Black family tree, no matter how distantly removed you are,” Phineas snarls. This time, he’s not mocking her or smiling in a vicious way. Darcy’s never seen Phineas red in the face before, or so angry or so vindictive. His face is shaking, dark eyes open wide with rage, spit flying from his lips to spatter the inside of his portrait like a window. His voice rises with each word spoken. “You will be next to be blasted off that damned tapestry. To have you walk the halls of my family’s house is a disgrace and an embarrassment to the name of Black, and I will make sure your name is removed from history if I must crawl from my grave to do it myself—”

Gemma moves forward a few steps and, without warning, as the door bursts open to reveal a very relieved looking Sirius and Lupin, she spits on Phineas’ portrait. Phineas lets out a string of curses and leaves his portrait frame yelling. Gemma’s chest is heaving as chaos erupts.

“What are you doing in here?” Sirius growls at them, looking harassed. “We thought you were missing—”

“Get the fuck off me!” Gemma shouts, pushing violently at Sirius’ hand as he tries to wrap his fingers around her upper arm to pull her away from the portrait. She rounds on him, and Sirius takes a step back.

“What the hell are you talking to him for?” Sirius asks harshly. Gemma shakes her head. “The fuck are you doing in here, Gemma? We couldn’t find you or Darcy anywhere.”

Lupin gives Darcy a significant look, placing a hand on the small of her back and his other hand on Gemma’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of—”

Gemma wriggles wildly out from under Lupin’s hand, shoving him hard in the chest. “Don’t _fucking_ touch me!”

She storms out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Lupin moves both his hands to Darcy’s shoulders, squeezing gently, as Sirius turns on his heels to face Darcy. “What are you doing, bringing her in here to talk to him?”

“I—I’m sorry,” she says weakly, wishing she could be unaffected by Sirius’ gruff voice like Gemma had been. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t know what?” Sirius snaps, moving closer to her.

“I didn’t know what he’d say—”

“I _told_ you, didn’t I? I told you months ago to stay away from my mother’s shit, didn’t I?” Sirius presses, and Darcy shrinks back against Lupin’s chest, blushing and feeling tears prickling painfully in her eyes. “ _Didn’t I_? And what do you do? You come in here and start talking to one of my foul relatives!”

“Sirius, I’m sorry,” Darcy cries, shaking violently against Lupin. She tries to take another step away from Sirius as he moves forward, and she treads on Lupin’s feet and making him stumble backwards. “I’m sorry, please—”

“What did he say, Darcy?” Sirius shouts, getting closer and closer, and Darcy can’t move away any more, but Lupin’s arms wrap around her, holding her to his chest protectively. “What the fuck did he—”

“Sirius,” Lupin says, his voice loud, but not quite a shout. Sirius quiets instantly, looking at Lupin with wide eyes. In a much calmer, but still firm, voice, he says, “All right, mate, time to take a few steps back and cool down.”

Sirius falters, and then scoffs. “What?”

“I said,” Lupin repeats quietly, the silence surrounding them deafening. “Take a few steps back and cool down.”

It’s then that Sirius seems to come to his senses, breathing very heavily and stepping backwards slowly. He looks for a long time at Darcy, shaking like a leaf in Lupin’s arms, crying silently against his shirt. The bile rising in her throat burns her esophagus and she nearly chokes on it, and she sees blood on the fabric of Lupin’s shirt. Touching her nose with her finger, it comes away bloody.

“Oh . . .” Sirius softens suddenly, holding out his hands for Darcy to take. “Darcy . . . sweetheart, come here.”

Darcy doesn’t reach out for him, allowing Lupin to wrap his arms tighter around her. Sirius hesitates before moving closer to her, this time with a very apologetic look on his handsome face.

“Padfoot,” Lupin says again warningly. “Why don’t you go look for Gemma?”

Sirius pauses, lowering his hands slowly upon realizing that Darcy isn’t going to take them. “Sure.” Finally, he pats Darcy’s hair and she flinches, closing her eyes. “Love you, kid.”

Darcy swallows hard. “Love you too,” she murmurs.

Lupin doesn’t release her until Sirius leaves, closing the door halfway behind him. Darcy turns to face him, and he immediately presses his sleeve to her nose, wiping the blood off her face carefully. “You all right?”

“I’m sorry,” she rasps. “I—Phineas said he’d tell me what’s happening at Hogwarts, and . . . he wanted to see Gemma—I didn’t know—”

“The next time you want to know what’s going on at Hogwarts, you can just tell me. I have ways of communicating to either Severus or McGonagall if I need to speak with them. Is there something wrong?”

“No . . . I was only curious, I swear it, please—”

“I’m not mad, Darcy, I promise,” he smiles, kissing her forehead. Pulling his sleeve away from her face, Lupin tilts her head back, examining her nose. “Sirius would never hurt you, do you know that?”

“I know. I was just . . . I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. Sirius has been in this house for a long time, but you need to respect his wishes.” Lupin kisses her forehead again for good measure. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Vodka.”

Lupin blinks in surprise, laughing for a moment, his smile fading when he sees she’s serious. “Oh—! I meant, like, er—hot cocoa or something.”

“I should go to Gemma. She won’t want Sirius.” Darcy sighs. “I know where she is.”

Sure enough, Gemma’s standing in front of the tapestry when Darcy enters the drawing room two minutes later, taking care to lock the door. Her wand is held tight at her side, her face a little softer than when she’d been talking to Sirius. She doesn’t protest when Darcy stands beside her, looking at her name.

_Gemma Ava Smythe  
May 7th, 1976 —_

Darcy can’t take her eyes off the embroidery, still slightly anxious about what Phineas had told her about Gemma’s family. “I’m sorry,” she breathes, speaking to the tapestry. “I’m so sorry, Gemma. I never should have asked you there. It was . . . selfish and insensitive, and I’m sorry.”

Gemma is quiet for a minute. “Darcy, I would . . . _never_ hunt werewolves for sport . . . I would never hurt people like that.”

This time, Darcy turns her head a fraction, trying to pretend she doesn’t see the tears in Gemma’s eyes. “I know,” she whispers.

“I know how you feel about Snape,” Gemma says quietly. “You know he’s done all these terrible things, he’s believed all these terrible things, said all he terrible things . . . you know what he chose to be, and yet he is good to you. He loves you, genuinely and truly. And you want to love him, but you hate yourself for it, don’t you?”

Darcy nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“I would never . . . Darcy, I . . . I do _not_ believe those things, and I’ve never believed those things.” Gemma lowers her hand from the tapestry. “My parents didn’t raise me to hate Muggles or Muggleborns. They raised me to be kind, but not to take anything lying down. They raised me to be fair, to be tolerant, to be open-minded.”

“No one thinks any differently,” Darcy assures her.

“Everyone thinks differently, Darcy,” Gemma retorts, looking quickly at Darcy. “Everyone who sees my last name, who knows my parents, who knows what House I was in.”

“They just don’t know you.”

“And they have no desire to know me.”

“Fuck what they think, Gemma,” Darcy asserts, frowning. “Fuck what anyone thinks except for us.”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be me, Darcy? Do you have any idea at all?” Gemma hisses, making Darcy recoil slightly. “Phineas was right, you know? About everything he said in regards to my family. How would you feel if you had to be on the same family tree as someone who let men and women run naked around the grounds to be hunted like animals during the worst night of the month for them?”

“Sirius is on—”

“Sirius is blown off,” Gemma snaps, holding her wand up and digging the tip of it against her name on the family tree. She seems to be fighting some internal conflict, a vein throbbing in her temple. There’s a thin layer of sweat on her forehead as she presses her wand deeper and deeper into the tapestry. And finally, Gemma drops her wand as if its burned her, and she shouts, “ _Fuck_!”

Darcy jumps as Gemma lands a hard punch on the wall, on her father’s name, and then on her mother’s. The skin on her knuckles breaks and blood smears across her swollen knuckles and broken middle finger. In all of her rage, Gemma doesn’t even seem to notice, picking up her wand and pointing it at her hand. Without a word, her finger sets itself—she cries out and then the tears come. Bewildered, Darcy watches as Gemma holds her face in her hands, crying, babbling incoherently into her palms.

Gemma sinks to her knees and Darcy lowers herself down beside her. Hesitantly, Darcy wraps an arm around Gemma, trying to decipher what she’s saying while trying to shush her at the same time. It’s impossible to make anything out, however, and Darcy starts to cry with Gemma for no other reason than because she just loves her so much. To see Gemma hurt so badly, to be so affected by her family, hurts Darcy, as well. Eventually, Darcy does get Gemma on the sofa, covers her with a blanket, and retrieves a bottle of wine that she and Lupin had started a few nights ago. Gemma drinks it gratefully and settles her head into Darcy’s lap, closing her eyes, her back jumping every so often.

Darcy runs her fingers through Gemma’s dark hair slowly, unable to think, her mind clouded. Everything that’s happened in the past half hour or so has still to be digested, but it’s all so mixed up in her head. Gemma sniffles, wiping her eyes, her fingers still covered in dried blood.

“I know you didn’t want to hear about Sirius, but . . . can I tell you something, Darcry?”

Not wanting to upset Gemma, Darcy braces herself. “Sure.”

Gemma sniffs again. Her voice is hoarse and barely there, but it quite suits the somber mood in the drawing room. “I’ve never slept with anyone who really knew me, you know what I mean?” she croaks. “I mean . . . even Robert didn’t really know me. I was Gemma Smythe to him, pureblood, good girl.”

Darcy is relieved the confession is nothing dirty, and she thanks God before answering. “What was it like?”

“Fucking terrifying, wasn’t it?” she asks, laughing weakly. “Felt like I was fourteen again, standing naked in front of Robert—”

“Fucking hell, Gemma,” Darcy chuckles, running a hand through her own red hair. “Fourteen?”

“Shut up,” Gemma says, almost sounding like her normal self again. “Anyway . . . I don’t know. Felt weird, you know?”

“I think that’s why I was so nervous sleeping with Remus the first time,” Darcy confesses, almost laughing at the thought that Gemma felt the same around Sirius. “He knew me in ways Oliver never had, and it was like once I actually took my clothes off, there was nothing else left for me to show him. That was all I had left to give him.”

“Yeah,” Gemma says, nodding slightly. “I don’t know that I like the feeling. I felt . . . vulnerable.”

“Yeah.” Darcy chews the inside of her cheek, looking off into the fire. “Vulnerable.”

“It was far more intimate than I thought it would be.”

“I know what you mean.” Darcy shifts on the sofa, keeping Gemma’s head propped comfortably against her thigh.

“I don’t ever want to leave this house, Darcy,” Gemma says suddenly, and it sounds as though she’s started crying again. “This is my favorite place in the world.”

“You can stay for as long as you’d like,” Darcy smiles. “You don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.”

“I’d like that.”

They’re quiet after that, quiet until Gemma falls asleep tucked under the blanket, her cheek pressed against Darcy’s leg. Darcy reads for a little bit, not wanting to disturb Gemma’s rest, and when the fire dies down, she gets more comfortable and just closes her eyes when the door to the drawing room opens, creaking ominously. She turns her head to smile at Lupin as he walks over to the sofa, bending over to check that Gemma’s sleeping.

“Everything all right?” he whispers to Darcy, standing up straight again.

Darcy nods.

“Coming to bed?”

“I thought maybe I’d stay down here with Gemma tonight,” Darcy says apologetically.

Lupin smiles at her, kissing the top of her head. “As you wish. I’ll leave the door unlocked.” He bids her good-night, making for the door.

“Come here,” Darcy calls softy. He obeys without question, turning quickly and walking back over to her. She tilts her head back and Lupin looks down at her. “Kiss me.”

He does. “Goodnight, love.” He turns his back on her again.

“Remus?”

With an exasperated smile, Lupin turns and raises his eyebrows at her expectantly. “Yes?”

“When we slept together that first time,” she asks, “what was it like for you?”

“Terrifying,” he laughs, careful not to be too loud. “I knew I only had that one chance to get things right, or else you’d never love me.”

This makes Darcy smile. “I loved you long before you took your clothes off.”

He kisses her again. “You must have been mad.”

“No,” she replies. “I don’t think so. Just in love.”

Another kiss. “What’s the difference, really?”

“I don’t know.”

One more. “Neither do I.” Lupin inclines his head politely at her, reaching for her hand and giving it a small squeeze. “I’ll see you in the morning, won’t I?”

“Where else would I be?”

“I know,” he says, giving her an easy smile. “I suppose I’m just happy to be reminded that you’ll still be here in the morning.”

Darcy blushes, smiling sheepishly. “Oh yes?”

Lupin clears his throat, his cheeks turning pink, as well. “I’m really glad that you’re here, Darcy.”

She takes a moment to answer, and she still isn’t sure it’s the complete truth when she says it, but she continues to smile all the same. “Me too.”


	57. Chapter 57

“Er—Mrs. Weasley? Could I just have some bacon instead?”

“What’s wrong with your kippers?”

“Well, nothing, but . . . I don’t like kippers.”

“Then don’t eat them.”

Gemma rolls her eyes as Mrs. Weasley turns away, offering her plate to Darcy. “You want these?”

“Yeah, all right.” Darcy puts her fork down. “Here, take my bacon.”

“Bartering your breakfasts is a bad habit I’d rather you quite forget,” Mrs. Weasley snaps at them, her back still to them. Darcy can’t help but notice it sounds as if she has a head cold, but she’s far too tired and not interested enough to ask why she’s crying (she suspects it’s something to do with Percy, and Darcy doesn’t really want to talk about him at all). “If you’re so insistent on being adults, then you can act like them and eat what’s in front of you whether you like it or not.”

“Since when is it law that adults must force themselves to eat things they don’t like? Isn’t that the whole point of being an adult? You can eat whatever you like?” Gemma asks, pushing the kippers off her plate and accepting Darcy’s bacon with a smile.

“If you’re not going to be grateful, then you can starve,” Lupin teases in a low whisper, raising his eyebrows and grinning when Gemma flashes him a dirty look over the table.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Weasley hears him. “Thank you, Remus,” she says, her tone still brisk, her back still to the table. Lupin looks torn between letting her continue her rant and telling her it was only a joke, instead giving the morning’s _Daily Prophet_ a snap and hiding his face behind it. Mrs. Weasley continues to mumble under her breath as she fusses with the bubbling broth in the kettle, going to be used for lunch. “Don’t know what they were thinking . . . seventeen is hardly an adult . . . in this day and age . . . the audacity . . .”

Sirius sighs heavily and dramatically, putting his cutlery down and leaning back in his chair, balancing on the back two legs. “All right, I’ll bite,” he says, rolling his eyes and making Darcy and Gemma smile. In his sweetest voice, sounding almost mocking, he asks, “What’s wrong, Molly?”

She seems to have been waiting for someone to ask. Mrs. Weasley turns around quickly, her flaming red hair slapping her in the face, and she slams a cup of coffee in front of Darcy, causing it to spill over the lip and onto the table. Darcy cleans it up hurriedly, but Mrs. Weasley doesn’t even seem to notice. “Fred and George seem to think that they no longer need to continue their education . . . apparently, they’re too good for Hogwarts . . .”

The entire table just looks at her; Lupin lowers the newspaper just barely, narrowing his eyes at Mrs. Weasley. “What do you mean they no longer need their education?” he asks slowly, as Sirius’ shit-eating grin suddenly widens in comprehension.

Mrs. Weasley answers in a hysterical shout. “They’ve dropped out of Hogwarts!”

Gemma and Sirius look excited at this news, laughing outloud, earning them both deadly glares from Mrs. Weasley. Both Darcy and Lupin speak at the same time, outraged: “ _What_?”

“It’s true!” Mrs. Weasley sobs, throwing herself against Lupin, crying into his shoulder. He freezes for a moment, inhaling deeply and patting her on the back awkwardly. “They’re in Diagon Alley, living above that joke shop they’ve bought! I don’t even know where they’ve gotten the money for it . . . I don’t know what I’d do if that money had been . . . been . . . they were smart boys, really . . . their seventh year almost finished . . .”

“They’ve got a joke shop in Diagon Alley?” Gemma asks, cocking an eyebrow and smiling at Darcy as Mrs. Weasley continues to sob loudly into Lupin. “Maybe I’ll drop in for a visit after work today.”

“See if they’ll come for a visit!” Darcy whispers desperately, and Gemma nods. “It would be good to see them.”

“That would be so wonderful,” Mrs. Weasley sniffles, lifting her head from Lupin’s shoulder, dabbing at her puffy eyes with a wet handkerchief. “Oh . . . Remus, you could talk to them . . . tell them how your schooling was important . . . and Darcy . . . perhaps you drank too much, but you finished school, and . . . oh, _please_!”

“Not that I want to, you know, argue with you,” Sirius says, but his tone seems to suggest that’s exactly what he’s going to do. “But even if Darcy and Remus convince Fred and George that education is the most important thing—and no offense, but I don’t know that lesson will penetrate their skulls in the slightest—you really believe they’ll be able to just . . . go back? It’s a bit more complicated than that, isn’t it?”

“Don’t worry, Molly, we’ll speak with them,” Lupin says quickly, before Mrs. Weasley answers. He gives Sirius a significant look. “In the meantime, you shouldn’t worry. I’m sure Fred and George are doing just fine with their business. Sirius and I looked at some of their stuff over the summer . . . it’s quite good.”

“A joke shop isn’t a suitable career for two young boys with their magical talent,” Mrs. Weasley huffs. “If they only put their minds together to focus on their schoolwork . . .”

Lupin shrugs, hiding behind the newspaper again. “Better than having no career at all, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Weasley doesn’t seem entirely convinced.

“Well, I should get going if I don’t want to be late for work,” Gemma says, yawning and stretching her arms above her head. She pushes her plate away and gets to her feet. “Listen, Sirius, I told my parents I was going on a little holiday soon. I’ve taken off work for a week in the beginning of May. Told them I was off to Italy. Could I stay here?”

Sirius frowns. “You don’t want to go to Italy?”

Gemma scoffs. “I never intended to go to Italy,” she shrugs, smiling at him. “Is it all right if I stay for a week?”

“As if you don’t already live here part-time,” Sirius jokes, putting his feet up on the table as he continues to lean back carefully in his chair. “You’re not tired of it here yet?”

“I thought it would be polite to ask,” Gemma grins. “You are Darcy’s guardian, are you not? This is your house, isn’t it? Should I have just moved all my stuff in without asking first?”

“What Sirius means to say is _yes_ ,” Darcy tells her, a mouthful of eggs. “You can stay here for a week.”

“What happens when you go back home and you have nothing from Italy? Not even a tan?” Sirius asks.

“Like it’s hard to procure pictures and make up stories about how I lay comatose on the beach for seven days straight?” Gemma snorts. “I think I’ll be fine.”

“I’d like to go to Italy,” Darcy says wistfully, craving the outdoors as she thinks of lying on a beach, burning in the sunshine. “Remember those pictures Carla brought back one time?”

“Yeah,” Gemma answers eagerly. “She took about a hundred of them. What do you say, Darcy? When the Ministry stops hunting you dirty criminals, we could take a real vacation. Do all the touristy stuff.”

Darcy hums. “I’d be okay with skipping the touristy stuff and just lying on a beach, truthfully.”

Gemma tilts her head back and laughs. “All the rich history in Italy, and all you want to do is lounge in the hot sun with a bikini on, is that it?”

“Sounds about right. Maybe you could feed me some _soppressata_.”

Gemma gives Darcy an incredulous look, her hands on her hips. “You done showing off now?”

Darcy chuckles, looking back down at her plate and shaking her head. “Yeah, I’m done.”

“Clear your plates before you leave. Girls, I’d like a word with you alone before you go, Gemma.”

Sirius and Lupin clear their plates, as well as Darcy’s and Gemma’s, before leaving the three women together in the kitchen. Gemma resumes her seat, kicking at Darcy’s foot under the table. Darcy kicks her back. “Quit playing footsie with me,” Darcy whispers, unable to hide her smile. Gemma giggles, but Mrs. Weasley turns around to reveal a very ominous expression about her face, and Gemma’s own smile fades into a smirk.

“What is it, Mrs. Weasley?” Gemma groans, checking her golden, glittering watch. “I really have to get ready soon.”

“Then I’ll get straight to the point,” Mrs. Weasley says, a little too sternly for Darcy’s taste. Her eyes (so like Ron’s that it almost makes Darcy’s heart ache) swivel back and forth from Darcy to Gemma with suspicion and an apprehensiveness that’s rarely seen on such a warm and kindly woman. “I think the both of you are well aware you’re very pretty young girls, and I don’t know that I’m very comfortable with you spending so much time in a house . . . inhabited . . . by two older men that you . . . are in such close confines with so often . . .”

Darcy gets the message. “You realize Sirius is my godfather, right?” She looks sideways at Gemma, who seems less than impressed with Mrs. Weasley’s comment. “And this is my house as much as it is his. No disrespect, Mrs. Weasley, but Gemma has every right to be here, and so do I.”

“Little late for this conversation, isn’t it?” Gemma murmurs, elbowing Darcy playfully in the arm. Unlucky for her, Mrs. Weasley hears this and turns bright red. “Doesn’t Darcy tell you anything, Mrs. Weasley? I can’t believe she forgot to mention the raucous orgies that happen between the four of us when we have nothing better to do.”

Darcy nods, her cheeks pink, very impressed with Gemma’s ability to backtrack so quickly. Mrs. Weasley splutters, her face so red it’s almost purple. “That’s—oh, wait until I—completely inappropriate—how could you—why would you—”

Gemma raises her eyebrows, grinning. “What are you going to do? Tell my parents I’ve been misbehaving?” she scoffs, and Darcy’s eyes widen upon hearing the tone with which Gemma speaks to Mrs. Weasley’s face.

Nostrils flaring and anger blazing, radiating off her in overwhelming waves, Mrs. Weasley points threateningly at Gemma with a wooden spoon. “If your parents aren’t going to look out for you, then someone should.”

“Not you, I hope?” Gemma snorts, and Darcy sucks in a deep breath, the wind nearly knocked out of her. “My parents are alive and well, thank you very much, and I don’t need you to replace my mother.”

“All I’m saying is that—”

“It’s not up to you to decide where I can spend my time. If the _inhabitants_ of this house will have me, then I’ll gladly stay—older men or no.”

“I’m sure your mother and father would not appreciate you staying in a place—”

“And I don’t appreciate you implying that Sirius or Remus would ever do something as disgusting as take advantage of me.” Gemma looks at Darcy, half-amused. “I’ll bet you a thousand Galleons that they’re nicer boys than any other ones my age that might be found skulking around my own home. Is it the age that bothers you so about Remus, or is it, you know, something else?”

“What are you suggesting?” Mrs. Weasley snaps, her entire body red with rage. Darcy holds her head in her hands, torn between laughter and exasperation.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Weasley,” Gemma shrugs, casual as can be. She crosses one leg over the other and sighs contently, smiling. “What do you think I’m suggesting?”

“If you’re suggesting that I’m in any way prejudiced—”

“Did I say that?” Gemma asks innocently, looking to Darcy for confirmation. “I just think it’s funny that after you saw what Remus did to Darcy’s shoulder, you’ve been doing your damndest to keep them apart, haven’t you?”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Gemma?” Mrs. Weasley snarls, looking distinctly harassed. “Perhaps it would be best if you left now.”

Gemma gets to her feet, pointing her index finger at Mrs. Weasley. “Didn’t realize this was your house,” she scoffs again. “But feel free to boss me around. And by the way, I fucked Sirius, and it was absolutely consensual.”

The kitchen is deadly silent when Gemma leaves, and Darcy can feel Mrs. Weasley’s eyes boring a burning hole in the back of her head as she turns to avoid the older woman’s gaze. Gemma’s confession has stunned Darcy into an uncomfortable silence, though she can hear Mrs. Weasley’s furious, ragged breathing. With her elbows on the table, fingers steepled against her lips, Darcy stares at the kitchen door, unable to say or do anything but blink in surprise.

Finally, she clears her throat, looking at Mrs. Weasley apologetically. Struggling for speech for a moment, she’s able to croak, “She’s going through a tough time right now.”

Mrs. Weasley seems to deflate slightly, looking weary. Her face is still blotchy with color, clashing badly with her hair. “Darcy, I am only going to say this once,” she says, with the exhausted persona only a mother who has raised seven children can have, “I understand that you and Gemma are young women with . . . progressive views on such things, but the school year is almost over and I’m sure the children will want to spend time here and this is still headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix and I don’t think Professor Dumbledore would appreciate headquarters being treated like a brothel.”

“A _brothel_?” Darcy repeats, more amused than angry. She’s sure Mrs. Weasley means well—she almost always does—but after the scene Gemma had just caused, Darcy finds it hard to take anything she says too seriously. Mrs. Weasley softens, but still gives her a tired and stern look upon hearing Darcy’s gentle laughter. “Should I have been charging this whole time?”

Mrs. Weasley sighs loudly, sliding into Gemma’s empty chair beside Darcy with a steaming mug of tea held between her palms. “You can see how this must look to an outside party, dear,” she says, pursing her lips as if afraid Darcy will lash out, as well. “Two good-looking men, two beautiful young girls.”

Darcy smiles, laughing softly. “It’s not like that, Mrs. Weasley. We’re a family, and we all love each other. Once Harry is back from school, we’ll be a proper family.”

“Do you miss it? Hogwarts?” Mrs. Weasley asks with a weak smile.

Darcy nods. “Yes,” she admits. “Very much. I know Remus isn’t as interested in my lectures as he claims to be. Joke’s on him, though. I didn’t listen to half of his lectures during class, anyway.”

Mrs. Weasley pats Darcy’s hand atop the table. “Once Professor Umbridge is gone and Fudge sees reason, you will be able to go back.” She hesitates, leaning in closer so Darcy can smell the woodsy and natural scent of her perfume. “You _do_ want to go back, don’t you?”

Darcy exhales, shrugging her shoulders, looking around the kitchen. “I mean . . . Remus is here, Sirius is here, Gemma loves it here, I never have to sleep alone here, no one is hurting me, I’m able to cook my own meals . . .” Her smile fades slowly. “And yet, I haven’t set foot outside in a week and likely won’t for some time, I can’t communicate regularly with Harry.”

Looking teary-eyed, Mrs. Weasley looks around quickly for something to do; she spots Darcy’s nearly empty coffee cup and asks if she’d like a refill. Before Darcy can answer, Mrs. Weasley is pouring more coffee into the mug. “I’m sorry, I’m just not used to seeing you so . . .” Mrs. Weasley sighs, running thick fingers through her bright red hair. “Arthur is very glad you’ve adjusted well to Grimmauld Place.”

“It’s only been a week,” Darcy jokes half-heartedly, pleased that Mr. Weasley’s been thinking of her. “Let’s not make congratulations just now. There’s still plenty of time for me to have a mental breakdown yet.”

* * *

“I think Gemma’s having a mental breakdown.”

Lupin chuckles. “What?”

“You heard me,” Darcy says, taking the book from his hands and closing it with a snap and tossing it aside. He raises his eyebrows and sighs, mussing up his graying hair. “You’re not the least bit concerned?”

He takes her hands in his, kissing her fingers. “Yes, Molly told me about the _raucous orgies_. I must have missed the invitation.”

“First of all, you’re not allowed to any orgies, raucous or otherwise,” Darcy frowns, making Lupin laugh again.

“No promises, especially where you’re involved,” he teases, and maybe if things were less serious time, she might have laughed. “You know me. And secondly?”

Darcy pulls her hands away from Lupin’s, allowing him to pour her another glass of wine. His cheeks are already flushed from drink, surprisingly drinking far more and far faster than Darcy tonight. She isn’t quite sure now is the best time to talk about it, but he seems coherent enough and Darcy would much rather have this conversation while Gemma is out of the house. “Secondly,” she continues, accepting her now full glass of wine, “she slept with Sirius. If that’s not an indication of a mental breakdown, I don’t know what is.”

Lupin smiles to her surprise. “Is that so . . . out of character for Gemma?”

“Well,” Darcy falters. “I mean, maybe not the sex part, but the Sirius part . . . yeah.”

“Just because it bothers you doesn’t mean it indicates some sort of mental break,” Lupin says, smiling wearily at her. “I think you’re reading too much into it.”

Darcy pauses, frustrated. “It doesn’t bother you whatsoever that Gemma and Sirius slept together?”

“Why should it? Sirius isn’t my godfather, and Gemma isn’t my daughter or my girlfriend or anything. What two consenting adults do in the bedroom is between them and no one else.”

“Not after Gemma told Mrs. Weasley she fucked Sirius. I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire Weasley family knows by now.”

Lupin exhales loudly. “Yikes. Didn’t hear that bit.”

Darcy leans back against the sofa, giving his arm a playful swat. “Probably because you were so hung up on the orgy part of it, you didn’t listen to anything else that came out of Mrs. Weasley’s mouth.”

He scoffs dramatically. “You know me so well.” When Darcy doesn’t laugh, he adopts a more serious face, sitting up straight and attempting to flatten his disheveled hair, only making it worse in the process. “Listen, we’re all going through a tough time right now, and we all show it differently. Gemma isn’t one for feelings . . . around me, anyway, or Sirius.”

“I felt so sorry about bringing her to talk to Phineas,” Darcy confesses, combing her fingers through Lupin’s hair and earning herself a content smile. “He said all these awful things about her family . . . and she’s so insistent that she’s like them, and she’s not. She’s my best friend in the world, and she’s your friend, too. We have to do something.”

“There isn’t much we can do while we’re all stuck in hiding,” Lupin says quietly, finishing his glass of wine and coughing for a moment. It takes him a minute to compose himself and then he pours his glass full again. “You and Sirius are doing plenty by letting her know your home is open to her whenever she needs it. She has a bed here, people who love her . . . there’s not much else we can do for her.”

“You don’t think she’d . . . do anything stupid, do you?” There’s a pleading note in her voice, hoping that Lupin will soothe her fears. The last thing she wants to think about is Gemma trying to drown herself just to stop the hurting.

“No.” His answer is firm and confident. “She knows you need her too much to leave you, Darcy.”

“I _do_ need her, don’t I?”

“She needs you, too. She wouldn’t do that, Darcy.”

Darcy isn’t entirely convinced. Gemma’s display in front of Phineas and in front of the tapestry bothers Darcy more than she can say, and Darcy can’t help but think of how she handles stress—drinking heavily, crying, walking into a lake. Not exactly good or healthy coping mechanisms, and Darcy wonders how Gemma copes with stress. Humor, laughter, jokes—Gemma had always covered up her problems with smiles, and Darcy can’t imagine what it will be like when Gemma no longer knows how to fake a smile. And after the scene with Mrs. Weasley . . . Darcy had been embarrassed to hear Gemma speak to Mrs. Weasley that way, ashamed and yet very protective of her friend.

“Sirius is avoiding me, you know,” Darcy tells him, looking up at the ceiling quickly as if expecting to hear him shuffling around. “Is he all right?”

“Let him sulk for a little and he’ll come around eventually,” he answers. “He’s sorry, you know. He didn’t mean to lose his temper . . . you know how he gets with the house. The family tree, the portrait of his mother.”

“I’m not angry with him, I swear it,” she says quickly, sitting up straight and feeling panicky at the thought Sirius might be so upset with himself. “I just . . . I was afraid, you know? I’ve always thought myself safe here and for a moment . . . for a moment I thought . . .”

“Sirius would never lay a hand on you.”

“I know.” Darcy is quiet for a little while, sipping at her wine.

“Going to play me the piano, love?” Lupin asks softly, his eyes flicking eagerly from Darcy to the piano and back again, the corners of his lips curling upwards.

“I learned a new song,” she grins, glad for a distraction, allowing him to lean in and leave a lingering kiss on her cheek, his scratchy beard tickling her. “Can I play it for you?”

“Of course.”

Darcy moves to sit at the piano. “It’s called _Air on the G String_ , by Bach. Have you heard it before? Emily brought me the sheet music from that shop we went to.”

“No, I’ve never heard it.”

Darcy, slightly drunk, aligns her fingers with the keys for a moment, feeling Lupin’s eyes on the back of her head. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Darcy begins to play it only somewhat clumsily. Being a slower song, she’s able to play quite well, and it makes her blush.

She wishes she could read Lupin’s mind, if only to see what memories or feelings he associates with the song. Darcy’s bombarded with soft memories of she and Lupin that make her ache for those times—waking up beside him and tracing the scars on his chest, gently enough he doesn’t stir; arriving at his home and lying on the sofa together in front of the television; listening to him read poetry to her while seated before a fire. The song is fingers brushing distractedly and shy smiles, fingertips against her face, tracing the line of her jaw, combing through her hair. It is springtime and she and Lupin are walking the streets of Hogsmeade, the bright sunshine melting the last few piles of snow, holding hands loosely and walking without a destination in mind. It is ten years from now, the war nothing but a memory, sitting outside his rundown cottage during the summertime, not speaking, just enjoying each other’s company, listening to the wind in the trees and the song of birds.

When Darcy finishes, the images flashing through her mind die with the melody, and she turns around to face Lupin. The song seems to have made him look years younger (though she thinks the wine may have something to do with it, as well), one arm draped over the back of the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, a pleased little smile on his handsome face. He claps slowly and softly, laughing when Darcy stands and curtseys before sitting on the sofa again.

“Did you like it?”

Lupin rests his head against the back of the sofa, turning to face her, still smiling. “Yeah, I liked it.”

“Do you like me?”

His smile grows. “Yeah, I like you.”

Darcy flushes, feeling rather pleased at how easy it was to coerce the words from him. “Are you prepared for the full moon tomorrow?”

“As prepared as I’ve ever been in my life, truthfully,” Lupin tells her with a heavy smile, giving her a forced, but slightly reassuring smile. “You’ll have to stay in your own bedroom. I don’t want you near me.”

Her face falls instantly. “But why? You’ve been taking your potion—”

“No, Darcy,” Lupin retorts, his tone brooking no argument. “Have you forgotten the first time you came face to face with me during a full moon?”

“But that was different—”

“It would be irresponsible to have anyone with me when I transform,” Lupin protests, clearly frustrated with her. Darcy blushes again, looking away. “It’s too dangerous, and I’m not going to risk anything.”

“You aren’t dangerous with your potion—”

“I’m not taking any chances, Darcy, so stop asking!” he shouts, taking a deep breath when she moves away from him. “Darcy—” Lupin sighs again, running a hand through his hair and working his jaw furiously before speaking in a much gentler tone. “If you had seen what I saw while among the werewolves and heard what I heard, you would understand. I will not allow you to put yourself at risk, locking yourself in a room with a full-grown werewolf, potion or not. Please don’t ask me again.”

Darcy licks her lips, her mouth suddenly very dry. “I’m sorry,” she rasps, “I just thought you’d . . . I thought you wouldn’t want to be alone.”

“It means the world to me that you would offer,” Lupin smiles, taking her hand in his and squeezing before releasing it. “But this is something very private to me, something I’m uncomfortable with you seeing or experiencing. Can you understand that?”

“You let Sirius and my dad round when you transformed at Hogwarts.”

“The relationship between James, Sirius, and I was much different than the relationship you and I have.” He turns slightly in order to face her. “After what happened . . . after what I did to you, I—I’m not ready for you to see me like that quite yet.”

“You know I wouldn’t think any differently of you.” She rubs his forearm, leaning in to rest her head against his shoulder.

This makes Lupin laugh, but it’s a sad laughter, as if he pities her or as if she’s said something completely outrageous and wrong.

Darcy doesn’t want to press the conversation any further. “Do you want to go to bed and fuck me senseless?”

Lupin takes her hand and pulls her up from the sofa and out of the drawing room before she can barely finish the sentence.

* * *

The next few days go by in a blur. The morning after Lupin had indeed fucked her senseless, they’d awakened to a frantic tapping on the window. Lupin had thrown open the window and Max had nearly attacked his head without warning, nipping lovingly at his ears and nose and assaulting him with feathers as Lupin stumbled around the bedroom spitting feathers from his mouth. Max had perched himself afterwards on the headboard of the bed and gone right to sleep with his head tucked into his wing, directly above Darcy’s head as if keeping watch. As much as Lupin complains about the owl, Darcy never fails to see Lupin feeding Max bits of his own breakfast every morning.

Gemma comes back one day with a bag full of prank items—Fanged Frisbees and Peruvian Darkness Powder and love potions (“I’m not going to use them, I just thought they were cool!” she declares indignantly upon seeing Lupin’s exasperated look)—and perhaps an even better surprise, Fred and George Weasley. They’re happy to recount dramatically how they’d left Hogwarts after turning a corridor into a swamp and Summoning their broomsticks from Umbridge’s office, flying into the sunset like the ending of one of those cowboy movies Mr. Duncan always watched, just without horses. Fred swears it’s the whole truth, and even tells them how he and George had set all their handmade fireworks off the day after Dumbledore and Darcy had disappeared from Hogwarts. Darcy makes them all dinner with Lupin’s help and it’s one of the best nights Darcy’s had in a long time, gathered around the dinner table with no awkward cloud hanging over them, or any animosity or talk of Hogwarts or the war or Umbridge. From what George says, business is booming, and they all have a few drinks before Fred and George take their leave after many hugs good-bye and kisses on cheeks and jokes. It’s only after they leave do Darcy and Lupin remember their promise to Mrs. Weasley regarding speaking to the twins about finishing out their education.

”We’ll get them next time,” Lupin says, appearing very unbothered by his lack of follow up on the promise made. “Besides, they wouldn’t go back if their life depended on it.”

Even Sirius begins to become his normal self again, spending less time with Buckbeak and more time with Darcy again. He apologizes as soon as he gets the chance, able to to do it alone and not in front of the others. Darcy doesn’t even let him finish his apology before nuzzling into his chest, allowing his arms to wrap around her tight. When she closes her eyes, it’s almost as if James has come back just to hold her, to hug her, to kiss her head, to love her. It’s such an overwhelming feeling that Darcy starts to cry against Sirius’ shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, but strokes her hair until she’s done, his smooth cheek against her forehead.

She’s quite glad that he hasn’t brought up Gemma, either. Despite the awkward morning when they’d all caught each other sneaking around, Gemma and Sirius continue to get on well, as if nothing has ever happened. Sometimes Darcy notices Sirius touch her innocently a little more than usual—when she makes him laugh, Sirius touches her arm, or when they sit on the sofa together, their should just barely touch. It seems, too, that sleeping with Gemma has put an end to Sirius’ moaning and complaining about Darcy and Lupin, for nothing is ever said when Lupin presses a kiss to her cheek in front of everyone (which isn’t very often, but often enough that Darcy learns to relish these public displays of affection), and Lupin no longer hides the goofy and dreamy and dazed smiles he gives her when Darcy waltzes into the room, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

The four of them spend much of their time together, listening to the crackling of the wireless or the rich sound from an old record on the turntable, dancing with each other and taking pictures for Darcy’s photo album. Darcy takes a picture one night of Gemma and Sirius sharing a cigarette, smiling at each other from their places upon the sofa. Gemma looks so happy in it that she puts it aside for safekeeping in her nightstand drawer, meaning to take it out the next time Gemma breaks down, hoping it will remind her how much everyone loves her here.

Yet, despite the joy Darcy finds at home, there is something sorely lacking at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, namely a dark-haired, green-eyed, fifteen-year-old boy. Harry’s absence begins to weigh on Darcy as the week comes to a close, each day feeling as if she’ll never see him again. At night, she toys with the fake Galleon Hermione had given her so long ago. The D.A. coin has been long put away, hidden in her wardrobe in a small box containing a few others things—the coin, the ticket from the Christmas film she and Lupin had gone to see back in December, a sweet picture of she, Gemma, and Emily smiling drunkenly for the camera. But Darcy keeps the other fake Galleon close at hand, half afraid that it’s going to burn hot in her palm, alerting her to danger at Hogwarts. But it never does. It doesn’t change or warm up, it just sits there, begging to be spent or thrown out. If she weren’t so afraid of Harry thinking she’s in immediate danger, she’d make Harry’s and Hermione’s and Ron’s coins all burn, just to let them know she’s thinking of them and missing them.

She feels awful about it, so awful that it begins to wear on her. If she had just kept her mouth shut, she might still be at Hogwarts—sure, it would be under Umbridge’s authoritarian rule, but Darcy would still be teaching, would still be with Harry and Hermione and Ron and Snape. She wants to talk about it, how much she misses Hogwarts, and several times she means to discuss it with Lupin, but upon seeing the smile on his face and hearing his many reminders that he’s so grateful to have her at Grimmauld Place, Darcy can’t find it in her heart to tell Lupin she’d rather be at Hogwarts somedays. Even Sirius, who has taken to mentioning every so often how happy he is to have Darcy with him at home full-time finally, isn’t an option for her, not wanting to break his heart.

With the Order meeting less frequently, Darcy hardly sees anyone else anymore. A few people stop by to talk to Sirius and Lupin, mainly Kingsley (who apologetically tells her he has no new news everytime Darcy asks) and Mad-Eye Moody. Sometimes they forget to make the door Imperturbable, and from what Darcy gathers, Moody thinks it’s safe for Lupin to be put back on guard duty for _the item_ (Darcy is sure Moody is well aware she’s listening in, for he takes care to speak very vaguely) as long as he’s wearing an Invisibility Cloak, and Lupin seems very relieved to hear he can leave the house again. While this hurts Darcy slightly, she can’t really blame him. What she wouldn’t give to just walk the streets around Grimmauld Place, to breathe fresh air again . . . to be alone for a little while . . . to have time to think without someone knocking on her door or talking in her ear . . .

Emily stops by Grimmauld Place from time to time, often bringing by bags of greasy food for everyone or something Darcy had asked for from a store. She never stays the night, however, and doesn’t seem to notice anything between Sirius and Gemma, for she still continues to flirt shamelessly with Darcy’s godfather, only receiving small smiles and chuckles in return. Once, she brings Tonks with her after a shift at the Ministry, and Tonks begs a private word with Lupin. Darcy, Emily, and Gemma all attempt to use the Extendable Ear to listen in on the conversation, only to find that the door to the drawing room has been made Imperturbable. This infuriates Darcy, the ugly and familiar feeling of jealousy creeping up on her, the feeling of not being good enough. All she can picture is Tonks kissing him while no one is around or listening, touching him while Darcy’s outside the door, preying on his weakness as a man and his desire to feel wanted (Emily’s words, not Darcy’s, but still a very valid thought, she thinks). When Lupin finally finds Darcy in her bedroom a half hour later, reading atop her blankets, he looks slightly drawn and pale and very exasperated, but he lies down beside her and curls up like a beaten pup in his clothes, resting his head on her stomach and falling asleep as she combs her fingers through his hair, and she’s unable to even be mad at him.

And then one day, a Tuesday afternoon, the front door opens and closes with a sharp snap that’s uncharacteristic of either Gemma or Emily. Curious, Darcy and Lupin make their way to the front door, stopping in their tracks at the sight of Snape taking care to lock the front door behind him, his black hair looking windswept and a traveling cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He does a double take when he sees Darcy come running into the hall, looking away upon spotting Lupin just behind her. Without thinking, Darcy runs up to him, throwing her arms around him, slightly pleased when he hugs her in return, only briefly.

“What’s happened? Is everything all right?” she asks quickly, retracting her arms from around his neck, blushing when she realizes Lupin is still standing a few paces behind her. “Is something wrong?”

“Technically speaking, everything is fine—”

“Technically?” Darcy repeats, her heart fluttering. “Meaning what?”

Snape shrugs nonchalantly. “Meaning Umbridge is still Headmistress and one of our corridors is still a swamp. But no one has died and no one is hurt, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Darcy takes a step back and blinks in surprise. “Are you joking with me?”

Snape’s pallid face floods with color. In the softest voice she’s ever heard from him, he mutters, “It’s been known to happen.”

This makes Darcy laugh quietly. She looks over her shoulder at Lupin, who seems to be waiting for some explanation as to why Snape is here, interrupting his time with Darcy. Since he shows no sign of asking the question himself, Darcy turns back to Snape.

“If everything’s all right, why are you here?” she asks, not unkindly, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

Snape looks around, as if just realizing where he is. His eyes linger on Lupin for a moment, something cold and malicious in his gaze, softening when his black eyes fall upon Darcy again. The color has not left his cheeks, but he looks severely uncomfortable. “I . . .” He clears his throat, straightening up and composing himself with his usual dignity and importance. “I came to see you. To . . . check in on you.”

“Oh!” Darcy says, her eyebrows nearing her hairline now, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. Struggling for speech, she notices Snape’s eyes flicking back and forth from her to Lupin. She turns, smiling weakly at Lupin. “Could you give us a few moments?”

Lupin hesitates, finally sighing heavily and nodding, retreating back into the drawing room. Snape watches him go, looking rather pleased with himself as he fussed with the claps of his cloak, hanging it on the coat rack beside him.

“Do you want a drink? Tea? Coffee?”

“Coffee is fine, thank you,” Snape says, and he places a hand on the nape of her neck, making a chill run down her spine, as they make their way to the kitchen.

Darcy fusses longer than usual with making his coffee, her back to Snape. She isn’t sure how to feel about Snape coming to see her, and admitting to it, especially in front of Lupin. She would have expected Snape to make up some excuse as to his arrival at Grimmauld Place, seeing as he isn’t a very welcome visitor with Sirius around. And while Darcy is sure part of Lupin’s forced sense of politeness towards Snape has much to do with her confused feelings for Snape, she’s sure it’s still awkward to come to a place where no one really wants to see you. A surge of sympathy (or is it pity?) for Snape rises in her.

She really only just realizes it now—how much she’s missed his constant company and companionship, the friendly and teasing banter between classes or at mealtimes, the comfortable silence while Darcy’s brewing potions. She misses the smell of the dungeon classroom, always a multitude of different scents—floral on some days and bitter the next, earthy and natural one day and, a few hours later, sweet and enticing and seductive. Just looking at Snape makes her miss all of these things, and Hogwarts in general—the grounds during springtime, green and colorful as flowers begin to bloom again, getting splashed by the giant squid as a tentacle comes down hard upon the surface of the water, the smiling students as she walks down the corridors.

“Turn around and look at me, Darcy,” Snape says, almost as if having read her mind. Darcy knows that there’s nothing more she can really do to prolong eye contact, seeing that his coffee is already poured into a mug. When he says her name again, it’s almost in warning. “Darcy . . . turn around.”

She does, placing the coffee in front of him and taking a few steps back. Snape cradles the mug between his spider-like hands, taking a sip and motioning with his head towards the empty chair across the table from him. Darcy wraps her arms around herself protectively, feeling nervous, something she normally doesn’t associate with Snape—not anymore, at least. She leans against the cabinets and counter, waiting for him to speak. The last thing she wants to do now is to dive right into Harry’s Occlumency lessons and take him by surprise, make him angry.

Snape sips his coffee, suddenly scowling. “You and Lupin, then?”

Darcy doesn’t answer.

“Are you going to sit down?”

“Why have you really come here?” she asks him, narrowing her eyes.

Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Snape sighs. “Don’t make me say it again, Darcy. Please . . . sit down.”

At this unusually polite request, Darcy sits down across the table from him, holding her hands in her lap. “How are the first years?”

“Still brats and still pestering me about when you’ll be back.” He leans forward slightly. “I told them you’ll never come back if they keep bothering me.”

Darcy smiles. “You’re cruel, Professor Snape.”

“Hardly.” He looks around the kitchen for a moment, blatantly avoiding her eyes. Darcy takes this opportunity to take a good look at him. He doesn’t seem to have changed much over the nine or so years that she’s known him (has it really been that long?), his hair the same length, hardly any gray in the black of it, but still greasy, still framing his face. Underneath his black robes, Darcy can’t imagine there’s much of a body—she images he’d be stringy and lanky, skin so white it’s like its never seen sunlight.

“Is the coffee all right?” Darcy says, reaching for conversation.

Snape looks down as if he’s forgotten he’s had it. “The coffee is fine.”

“Is it lonely at Hogwarts without me?”

“I confess, I’ve grown used to having you around,” Snape answers, his mouth twitching. “I expect you to be right behind me sometimes or sitting at my desk, and when I turn, you’re not there.”

“Professor Snape,” she sighs, running her hands through her hair, knowing it will likely be better to just be honest. “I know you’ve stopped giving Harry Occlumency lessons.”

What little color is in Snape’s face is suddenly drained. He looks at her for a long time and Darcy looks back at him with just as much ferocity, not wanting to look away and give herself up. “How do you know that?” he whispers, and he sounds more accusatory than curious.

“My home is currently being used as headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix,” she replies carefully. “I hear a lot of things.”

His jaw clenches tight as a vice. “And Lupin wants you to talk me into giving him lessons again.”

“No,” Darcy lies boldly. “ _I_ want you to teach Harry Occlumency again. You know how important those lessons were and Professor Dumbledore would have wanted you to continue with them—”

“Your brother showed absolutely no respect for Occlumency, did not care to practice what I had asked him to do, showed no interest in succeeding,” Snape snarls, leaning over the table, “and his arrogant and reckless behavior, his disrespect of all rules and boundaries set in place, made him cross a line that is absolutely unacceptable. I will not be resuming Occlumency lessons with him, I will _never_ be resuming Occlumency lessons with him, and do not ask me to resume Occlumency lessons because I am not interested in whatever script Lupin and Black have given you to recite to me.”

“They have nothing to do with this,” Darcy protests, though she feels guilty for privately agreeing with Snape regarding Harry’s behavior towards the Pensieve and Snape’s personal memories. “This is between you and me, Professor, and I am begging you to reconsider.”

“Why should I?”

“Because it’s important, and you know it is! Do you want Voldemort—”

“—don’t say the name, Darcy—”

“—to get into his head? To spy on you? On _me_?”

“What exactly are you suggesting?” Snape bristles, puffing his chest out importantly. She doesn’t miss the odd jerk his left arm does almost unconsciously. “Studying Occlumency is pointless if he refuses to work at it.”

“So you’re just going to give up?”

“You have no right to tell me how to do my job,” he snaps. “This does not concern you in the slightest, and you would do well to stop talking now.”

“Professor Snape, _please_ , do it for me.”

Without warning, Snape gets to his feet. His chair scrapes loudly against the flagged stone floor, and he opens the door with unnecessary force, taking a long step over the threshold. Darcy gets up quickly, sprinting around the table, catching up with him halfway to the front door.

“Hang on a minute!” Darcy pants, grabbing at his sleeve and halting him. Snape whirls around, tearing his arm away from her. “You’re just going to leave?”

“Clearly you’re not interested in my company,” Snape spits, his tone very bitter. As Lupin comes out of the drawing room again, Snape takes a step backwards, closer to the exit, glancing quickly at Lupin. “I should have realized you would have other priorities.”

“What did you want me to do? Throw a party to celebrate our reunion?” Darcy retorts, her heart beating madly. “I didn’t expect you, so forgive me if your welcome was less than what you expected.”

Lupin takes a few steps closer to Darcy, holding up his hands to attempt to broker a peace. “Let’s everybody calm down—”

Both Darcy and Snape round on him, speaking at the same time. “Be _quiet_!”

Scoffing, Lupin’s face darkens, and he folds his arms over his chest, straightening up to his full height and looking down at Snape. The scene is rather intimidating, but Snape doesn’t falter, he only sneers at Darcy.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Is the domestic life treating you well, Darcy?” Snape asks. “Everything you dreamed it would be?”

Darcy frowns, her brow furrowed. “You know I didn’t want to leave Hogwarts.”

“Then you should have kept your mouth shut, like I’ve been telling you all damn year.”

“And what would you have done in my place?” Darcy hisses. “Sold out your friends, I’m sure?”

Snape flushes, staring very determinedly into her eyes, avoiding looking at Lupin with everything he has in him. “How _dare_ you—” He nearly rushes her, moving towards her with the quickness of a snake; Lupin protests loudly, reaching out to stop him, but Darcy doesn’t flinch when he comes nose to nose with her. She knows Snape will not hurt her—would never hurt her. There had been worse times, times when she’d gone too far and was willing to admit it, and Snape had never raised a hand to her then. When Snape realizes her lack of fear, however, his entire body slacks, defeated. Lupin’s hands hover uncertainly in front of Snape, and the air is very still for a minute or so.

“Teach Harry Occlumency,” she breathes.

Snape answers in an equally breathy voice. “No.”

“Severus,” Lupin says, in the same tone in which he’d spoken to Sirius after the incident with Phineas Nigellus. “If you have no news for us, then perhaps it would be best if you left.”

Breathing rather heavily, Snape puts some distance between himself and Darcy. On a whim, Darcy turns to Lupin with her sweetest expression. “Remus, could you give Professor Snape and I just one more minute?”

Lupin looks as if this is the very last thing he wants to do, but finally nods reluctantly and takes his leave once more, this time going all the way up the stairs to the bedroom. She can hear him clunking all the way up, slowly, and the closing of a door in the distance. Snape doesn’t speak all the time, taking his traveling cloak off the coat rack and wrapping it around himself.

“If you won’t teach Harry Occlumency, will you at least bring him a note from me?” Darcy whispers, and Snape scowls.

“As long as you’re quick about it.”

This makes Darcy’s heart soar and she implored him to wait for just a minute. Leaping up the stairs to her bedroom, she scrawls a note to Harry, short and to the point.

_I’m thinking of you. Hope you’re all right. Summer is almost here. I can’t wait to have you living here with us. I love you. Give everyone else my love, as well._

Within seconds, she’s back downstairs, rolling up the parchment and tying it with a piece of ribbon found in her nightstand drawer. Snape takes it warily, tucking it in his pocket. “There’s nothing exciting in it,” she warns him, “so don’t bother opening it.”

“I didn’t intend to,” she says smoothly.

“You read my mind at your leisure,” Darcy reminds him, venom in her tone. “Why should my letters be any different?”

Snape doesn’t answer, acting as if she’s said nothing at all.

Darcy softens, suddenly feeling very guilty as he’s preparing to leave. It had been so sweet of him to come by, and having even the smallest contact with someone not living or frequently staying at Grimmauld Place is such a breath of fresh air—something _new_ , something that breaks her daily routine of the same old things. “You will come back, won’t you?” she asks gently. “On a better day?”

“Don’t be foolish,” Snape murmurs. “Of course I’ll come back. Next Tuesday. There’s a—”

“—free period at the end of the day. I know. I’ll have dinner ready, if you’d like something other than Hogwarts food.”

Snape hums distractedly. “No, I’ll not stay long. Just long enough to make sure you’re still here and still alive.”

“How sweet of you.”

Looking over Darcy’s shoulder towards the stairs, Snape clears his throat. “Does he know?”

It’s Darcy’s turn to blush. She does not need an explanation to know exactly what he’s talking about. “No, and I’d appreciate it if you never bring it up again.”

He flushes again, turns on his heels, and unlocks the front door, leaving Darcy standing alone in the corridor, and feeling much more lonely than she has in quite a while. She wishes he would have at least said good-bye.

“I tried,” Darcy tells Lupin and Sirius a few minutes later, as she’s settling down before the fire with a book. “He’s not going to teach Harry Occlumency. His pride is damaged. Harry shouldn’t have looked at his memory to begin with—”

“You’re blaming _Harry_?” Sirius asks incredulously, anger flashing in his gray eyes by the firelight. He pokes at the crackling logs in the hearth with a long, iron rod. “If Snape didn’t want his memories looked at, he shouldn’t have left them lying around, and he should have been kinder.”

“You _know_ Harry is too curious for his own good,” Darcy says, looking at Lupin and hoping for his defense. “I’m not saying that Snape was in the right for ending lessons or treating him the way he’s been treating Harry, but Harry really shouldn’t have done that.”

“If you ask me, sounds like Snivellus was baiting him—”

“Don’t call him that,” Darcy snaps, opening her book and beginning to read before she has time to see the scowl on Sirius’ face. “It’s Dumbledore’s fault for making Snape teach him Occlumency in the first place. What’s he playing at? Setting up private lessons with the teacher Harry hates the most?”

“I agree.” Lupin rubs his face, scratching at the patchy beard growing in on his face. “Dumbledore should have known Harry would get nowhere with Occlumency if being taught by Severus, but . . .” He sighs loudly. “There’s nothing that can be done anymore. We can only hope that Harry has learned enough.”

Darcy tenses, knowing very well that Harry has learned almost nothing about Occlumency except the fact that he hates Snape more than he thought possible. She’s sure he cannot close his mind to Voldemort, especially if he cannot close his mind to Snape. “And if he hasn’t?” she asks quietly, dreading the response.

No one answers; the atmosphere is suddenly very heavy and suffocating and the prospect of Voldemort invading his mind is too terrifying to even picture. Lupin avoids looking her in the eyes, examining his fingernails a little too closely, and Sirius continues to stoke the fire without magic, whether out of sheer boredom or for something to do, Darcy isn’t sure. But she wishes they would talk, even if the answer is not one she particularly wants to hear. The silence is too pressing, too knowing, taunting her as her eyes fix upon a page in her book, pretending to read. The silence is terrifying—it is the unknown, and the fear of the unknown presses on her, afraid to hear an answer to her question.

But the silence is answer enough. 


	58. Chapter 58

By the third week, Darcy starts to become restless.

With Lupin taking it upon himself to guard the _item_ (or the weapon, as Darcy’s sure it is), and Gemma working herself half to death and spending more nights at her own manor, Darcy finds Grimmauld Place very lonely. The effect of both Lupin and Gemma’s absence takes a toll not only on her, but on Sirius, as well, who once more begins to fall back into the habit of avoiding her, spending far too much time either in his bedroom or in his mother’s room with Buckbeak. Darcy had made the mistake of seeking him out once during one of his ‘episodes’ as Gemma refers to them, and he’d ended up slamming the door in her face with no explanation, so Darcy hasn’t sought him out since.

She doesn’t mind Lupin getting out of the house, truly, but Darcy starts to think he’s almost gone _too_ much. She doesn’t want to say anything to him, for fear of retaliation. Sometimes he’s gone through the night, leaving Darcy to sleep alone in her own bed, without even Gemma to keep her company. What makes it worse is that, when Lupin does come home from his frequent guard duties, he never talks about it with her, keeping her in the dark completely and her anxiety spiking without reassurance. She wants to ask what Tonks had spoken to him about, if that is why he’s suddenly being so secretive and leaving more often, but Darcy tries to convince herself he’s just going stir crazy—after all, she is, and she’d gladly do guard duty four times a day if she could. And at least she can’t complain about a lack of physical affection, for Lupin tests her limits near every night, showing an extraordinary stamina that Darcy has never seen so consistently with him. If she’s being truthful, he’s wearing her out terribly, which is almost humorous, considering how much younger she is than him.

Often times, breakfast is taken by herself with Sirius taking advantage of the empty house to sleep until noon, and Darcy practices the piano while no one is listening, reads and marks up books that she finds in the house and Muggle ones that Emily is able to provide for her. But it all seems so repetitive and boring and tedious, and Darcy begins to spend her own time with Buckbeak, hidden away in dank room that had once belonged to Mrs. Black. Buckbeak likes her and enjoys her company, it seems, so much so that Darcy can walk right up to him now and he doesn’t even flinch. The hippogriff nuzzles against her face sometimes, the closest thing to a real, comforting hug she sometimes gets after days of being starved. Buckbeak enjoys Max’s company, as well, and Darcy finds herself wishing they both could talk just so someone could have a conversation with her.

Darcy spends much of her alone time wandering the house, as well. She looks through every door and in every cupboard, pacing until she’s able to walk the house perfectly with her eyes closed. She learns what stairs creak, which floorboard is loose in her bedroom, which windows are unable to be opened, which portraits and decorations are unable to be removed. One day, while Sirius is still sleeping early in the morning, Darcy wanders into his brother’s old bedroom. It takes her a minute to get the door unlocked, and once she does, she’s overwhelmed with green. It’s a stark contrast to Sirius’ Gryffindor-themed room, and there’s a picture on the nightstand coated with dust, of a Slytherin Quidditch team with a boy who looks like Sirius kneeling right at the front. The bedroom, messy and dusty and stuffy, gives her a very uncomfortable feeling, and when she leaves, she’s greeted by Kreacher.

Instead of mumbling filthy insults at her, Kreacher only smiles—smiles—at her, a twisted thing that looks ugly on his already foul face. Darcy frowns as he bows very low to the ground, his nose nearly swiping the dusty floor. “Mistress has found Kreacher’s old master’s room,” he croaks, standing up straight again, the grimace still on his face. “Kreacher hopes his mistress will forgive his words . . . Kreacher is unused to company, you see . . .”

“What do you want, Kreacher?” Darcy asks, narrowing her eyes.

“Kreacher’s mistress—” Something about the way he utters the word made chills run down Darcy’s spine. “—is feeling lonesome . . . restless . . . Kreacher sees, Kreacher hears . . . Kreacher _knows_.”

Darcy feels a thrill of horror shoot from her head to her toes. The hair on the back of her neck stands up.

“Mistress paces the house by night . . . keeps to herself during the day . . .” Kreacher wrings his hands together and Darcy’s heart begins to quicken. “Kreacher hears mistress crying at night when the werewolf is gone . . . talking in her sleep . . . calling out for the blood-traitor brat _she_ so hated . . .”

“Stop,” Darcy says hoarsely, unsure why these words strike her as so ominous and frightening. The idea that Kreacher may be lurking outside her door at night, listening to her cry or have nightmares or fuck makes her very afraid. “Stop it.”

Kreacher doesn’t answer, instead slipping into Regulus’ bedroom and closing the door with a snap.

Much to Darcy’s pleasure, Emily comes to Grimmauld Place one evening after Darcy and Sirius are finishing a quiet dinner. She comes bearing a letter from Carla, offering a late congratulations on the article, a few pictures from where she’s been, and bearing a promise that she’ll be home for the summer and would like to get together with everyone. This cheers Darcy, but only for a moment, until she wonders what Carla would say if she could see Darcy’s pathetic life now—trapped in a house she so desperately wanted to live in, unable to step outside, unable to contact Harry whenever she wants. What’s better than Carla’s letter, however, is Emily announcing that she has the following day off both of her jobs and, procuring two bottles of wine, proposes a sleepover.

Thrilled at the prospect of sleeping with another person for the first time in days, Darcy quickly agrees. Sirius sits with them in the drawing room for a short time, drinking from a bottle of firewhisky as Emily pours herself and Darcy glass after glass of wine. Once Sirius drinks too much too quickly, he excuses himself, kisses Darcy’s forehead, and leaves them alone in the drawing room.

When he does leave, both Darcy and Emily’s vague and shallow conversation turns to one much more private. “Where is everyone, anyway?” Emily asks, frowning at Darcy.

This makes Darcy hesitate. “Don’t you know that Remus has been taking up guard duty?”

“Yes, I know he’s taken up a few shifts,” Emily says warily, narrowing her eyes at Darcy. “Hasn’t he been here?”

“Sometimes.” Darcy feels awkward, confessing this in front of Emily. It’s embarrassing and shameful, and Darcy has a sudden image of Lupin sneaking off just to get away from her. If he isn’t doing guard duty, what could he possibly be doing? Darcy hates herself for automatically picturing another woman underneath him, kissing him with her tongue down his throat, running her fingers through his hair, whimpering his name in his ear. She doesn’t know what could be worse than this, except for maybe the idea that it might be Tonks squirming beneath him, marking his back with her fingernails, being marked by his teeth. There’s an uncomfortable swooping sensation in her stomach. “He hasn’t been himself lately.”

“How so?” Emily sounds genuinely curious, which strikes Darcy as very odd.

She shrugs, drinking deeply from her wine glass. “He hardly speaks to me. When he’s here, he sleeps mostly. He doesn’t sweet talk me at night like he used to, he just goes straight to sleep . . . if he even comes home.” Darcy glances quickly at Emily, shaking her head, trying to sound as casual about it all as possible. “It’s whatever, though. You know . . . it doesn’t bother me.”

Emily looks less than delighted by this news. She clenches her jaw for a moment, finishing her glass of wine. “Do you want to go lay in bed and gossip? Much more comfortable.”

This makes Darcy smile. Giggling like young girls, Darcy and Emily lock themselves in Darcy’s bedroom, changing into pajamas and drunkenly crawling into bed. “Have you spoken with Gemma lately?” Darcy asks, missing her presence much more than she thought possible. “She doesn’t seem herself, either.”

“Her parents recently had a gala to raise money for St Mungo’s,” Emily says quietly. “I should know. I did the small story for it.”

“I read that in the paper. Listen, I have to tell you what happened a few weeks ago. We went into the bedroom with Phineas’ portrait . . .” Darcy recounts to Emily everything she can remember Phineas saying to Gemma about her extended family, concluding with what she’d done in the drawing room and what she’d said to Mrs. Weasley (excluding the part about Gemma sleeping with Sirius, which Darcy feels a little guilty about) and the concerns she’d brought up to Lupin about Gemma, as well. Emily listens carefully with a furrowed brow, looking more concerned that Darcy thought she would.

“It’s hard for Gemma right now,” Emily sighs. “And if I’m being truthful, I’m surprised that she’s still coming around here.”

“She’s safe here,” Darcy whispers, hoping that its true.

“Until somebody starts to question where she’s been disappearing to,” Emily answers. “Look, I don’t know much about her parents personally, but I do know that they’re likely happy Gemma is disappearing _somewhere_. You’ve heard what she’s said before—they don’t want her involved in this.”

“She can stay here as long as she wants—until the war is over, we can hide her here.”

“No.” Emily rolls over in bed to face Darcy. “Gemma is not meant to be caged, no more so than you. But she has duties, and when the time comes, when Voldemort declares open war and shows himself to the Wizarding world, she will be expected to stand beside her parents.”

“She’s going to have to become a Death Eater?”

“No, Gemma would never. But she’s twenty and she’s beautiful and she will have to marry one,” Emily explains gently. “She has no brothers or sisters to carry on her family line, so she will be married off to a boy likely to become a Death Eater and she will have children with him.”

Darcy tries to picture Gemma in this particular situation, tries to imagine Gemma with a handsome, dark-haired husband with the Dark Mark branded on his arm, and two brown-eyed children running around their mother’s legs. For some reason, the image comes to Darcy almost too quickly, too easily. Gemma, who has always seemed very comfortable with the lavishness of the life, has always been aware of the expectations set in place for her. And while Darcy wants to believe that Gemma would refuse that life in order to fight against Voldemort, alongside her friends, Darcy can’t help but to remember how Gemma had been unable to blast herself off the tapestry, her fear of breaking her mother’s heart by throwing away all her parents had done for her.

Not wanting to think about the day Gemma may leave her side for Voldemort’s, Darcy exhales through her long nose. “Say this all ends in two or three years,” she says, pushing Emily’s golden hair out of her face. “What would be your perfect life?”

Emily laughs softly and sweetly. “Assuming I no longer want to work for the Ministry?” she asks, and Darcy nods, laughing with her. “Okay . . . two or three years, no Ministry . . . you know what I wouldn’t mind doing?”

Darcy shrugs, pulling the blankets up to her chin.

“Just moving to some small Muggle town with dad, away from the city. Far away from London. I’d be happy if I never had to see London again in my life.” She laughs again. “I’d contribute to the local paper, just little stories, not about Quidditch or Voldemort. Just about . . . people, good things.”

“What about magic?”

“Dad’s a Muggle, and he’s doing just fine.” Emily’s smile slowly fades from her face. “It seems like all magic has gotten us is trouble. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad living like a Muggle.”

“Don’t you ever want to get married?”

Emily scrunches her nose, making the both of them chuckle. “Maybe one day,” she says, but her answer doesn’t seem very confident. “But I’m not in any rush. What about you? What’s your perfect life?”

Darcy hesitates. The perfect life, the perfect dream of getting married and having children seems so rehearsed now, so scripted and boring and out of reach and unattainable. She tries to think of another dream that sounds slightly more realistic, one that would be just as okay as settling down. “I could be a teacher at Hogwarts,” she says, smiling weakly. “Maybe Snape will decide to retire early and leave a space open for me.”

“You want to teach at Hogwarts? You like it that much?” Emily asks, and the idea makes her smile.

“I love it,” Darcy answers breathlessly, amazed that she’s still able to smile right now. Right now, lying abed with Emily, telling secrets, reminds her of all the summer nights spent at Emily’s house doing the same thing. It makes her ache for years long gone. “I love the first years, and they love me. And I don’t even care if it’s only because I’m not Snape. I’m good at it, Emily, I’m really good. I miss it.”

“You know once Umbridge is gone—and when has the cursed Defense position ever presented untrustworthy?—and once Fudge realizes the truth, you’ll be able to go back?”

“And how long will that be?”

“I don’t know,” Emily admits slightly apologetically. “Some days I think Fudge already has one foot out the door. He won’t last much longer. He can’t handle the pressure, and he certainly won’t be a very formidable commander against Voldemort.”

“I just want to be able to leave the house again,” Darcy sighs. “I’m going mad, Emily. No one tells me anything, I can’t step foot out the front door, I can’t go back to Hogwarts, I can’t see Harry. Sirius hardly talks to me, and Remus . . . does he go to see Tonks, Emily? Tell me true, please, _please_. Does he?”

Emily looks bewildered by the question, and when she answers, Darcy thinks she’s telling the truth. “I don’t know, Darcy. I know they’ve have shifts together while on guard duty, but I . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know. Why would he?”

Darcy forces herself to laugh. Emily smiles nervously, warily. “I’m just being stupid,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “Maybe instead of going back to Hogwarts after everything, I’ll just get a house on the coast or something, far away from here, where no one could ever find me.”

“All by your lonesome?” Emily raises an eyebrow. A mischievous smile spread across her face. “You could marry Gavin and have such smart and beautiful children. That doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”

She doesn’t want to say it, but she has to. It almost comes out of her with the force of vomit, but it feels so good to say it. “Emily,” Darcy whispers. “I don’t think I can have children.”

Emily stammers for a moment. “What makes you think that?”

Darcy tries to think of a way she can explain herself without sounding crude. The idea makes her blush furiously. She settles with, “It would have happened by now.”

“Well, how do you know it’s you? How do you know that . . . you know . . . it’s not Lupin?”

“I don’t know,” Darcy confesses. She doesn’t realize that she’s crying until Emily puts her hands on her face. Her hands are so soft and so warm, and Darcy nuzzles into them, knowing she shouldn’t be embarrassed. “I fucked Oliver a lot, Emily, and it never happened. And I fucked Remus a lot more than Oliver. All it took mum was once— _one time_ , Emily, and she had me—”

“But you don’t know it’s you for certain,” Emily interrupts.

Darcy knows that Emily only means to comfort her, especially while using such a gentle voice, as one might speak to a dying person. “But I don’t know that it’s _not_ me for certain, either.”

Emily wipes Darcy’s tears with her thumbs, her jaw clenched.

“I really want children, Emily,” she cries, very softly, in case someone is listening. “I really, _really_ want children . . . a boy, a sweet boy, like Harry . . .”

“What’s brought this up, though? Why’ve you only thought of this now?” Emily props herself up on her elbow, looking very concerned in the low light.

Darcy glances into Emily’s eyes for a split second before rolling onto her back and wiping her eyes. “It was something Snape said, but he didn’t . . . he didn’t realize, I think . . .” She briefly tells Emily about the circumstances surrounding her newfound realization.

There is not much comfort Emily can verbally give her after that. But to have said it, to have acknowledged the fact outloud, to have Emily sympathize with her arms around her—Darcy thinks it could be a lot worse.

“He tried to kiss me, you know,” Darcy says again, breathing very heavily as she tries to stop crying. Emily’s eyes go wide in surprise. “Weeks ago . . . he tried to kiss me.”

Emily covers her mouth with her hands, looking horrified and scandalized, but at the same time curious. In a low whisper, she asks, “You mean Snape? Professor Snape? We are talking about the same person, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Darcy confirms, glad she’s able to chuckle and find humor in it. “Professor Snape tried to kiss me.”

“I always knew he was biased,” Emily says firmly, and this makes Darcy laugh again, the seriousness that Emily delivers these words with. “I always knew he favored you . . . that essay you wrote—”

“You’re still hung up on that?”

“Fine,” Emily sighs, scoffing. “Well, what was it like?”

“He didn’t actually do it,” Darcy says quickly, wanting to make that part very, very clear. “It was really weird, Emily. Like . . . it was a situation I never imagined myself in before. I didn’t even know what to do.”

“Was it gross? As gross as you’d imagine it to be?”

Darcy squirms uncomfortably. “That’s not very nice.”

“This is Snape,” Emily laughs, but it’s a mocking laugh, one Darcy might have shared with her back when she was a student, back when Snape was almost a completely different man to her. “When have we ever been above making fun of Snape?”

“Can we just . . . stop talking about it?”

Emily seems slightly taken aback by the defensive nature of her tone, but drops the subject immediately. After a few awkward minutes of quiet, the two of them fall asleep—or at least, Darcy pretends to.

* * *

Emily is gone in the morning. Whether she’s left the house completely or is (hopefully) in the kitchen making breakfast, the bed is empty when Darcy wakes. Max is asleep atop the wardrobe, his sweet little face tucked into his wing. She closes her eyes again upon hearing the bedroom door open slowly and close again, heavy footsteps crossing the room. The bed groans under their weight when they sit, and Darcy does not need to feel the lips pressed to the nape of her neck to know who it is.

Lupin pushes the thin straps of her tank-top aside in order to pepper her shoulder blades and the top of her spine with kisses. Darcy allows him to continue with these ministrations, goosebumps rising on her milky skin of their own accord as he nips playfully at her skin, the tip of his tongue darting out to taste her. As much as Darcy enjoys this, especially while she feigns sleep, anticipation making her toes curl beneath the blankets, she can’t help but to feel that swooping sensation in her stomach that she typically associates with Tonks whenever she’s less than twenty yards away from Lupin. As glad as she is to have him back, Darcy’s mind races with the possibilities, with ideas of the places he could have been.

“Your bed smells different,” he growls in her ear, kicking off his shoes and moving closer, pressing his front to her back so she can feel the quickened beating of his heart. “Who slept in here?”

Darcy finds she’d rather not speak to him, not after being gone all through the night, only to come home and kiss her like this. She closes her eyes, hoping Lupin will take a hint.

“I said,” he growls again, lips ghosting against her spine, his hand moving quickly between her legs. The sharp intake of breath Darcy draws is enough to alert Lupin to her awareness. “Who slept in here?”

“Emily did,” Darcy gasps, grabbing his wrist quickly and attempting to pull his hand from down the front of her sleeping shorts. He fights it for a moment, extending his long fingers to barely stroke her through her shorts, finally giving in and kissing the crook of her neck. “Where have you been, Remus?”

“I was busy with something for the Order,” Lupin says with an irritable sigh. His breath is so hot against her skin, and Darcy’s fingers tighten around his wrist. “What’s wrong, love? Don’t want me to touch you?”

Darcy tosses his hand lazily away from her and Lupin exhales loudly. “I’m lonely here, and you’re taking up every opportunity to leave. I thought you’d at least try to keep me company.”

“I’m giving myself to the Order so I can fight . . . so we can end this that much sooner and you don’t have to stay trapped in this house anymore.” He kisses her shoulder, his teeth grazing over the smooth flesh. “I do it for you, my love.”

“For me,” she breathes, not entirely convinced. Darcy wriggles against him, rolling over to get a good look at his face, recoiling at the sight of him. He’s absolutely filthy, in desperate need of a bath or two; dirt is caked on his face, in the lines at the corners of his eyes, covering the entirely of his long nose. The gray in his disheveled hair blends in well with the dust and dirt, and there are a few cuts on his hands that look like tiny paper cuts. His clothes (Darcy almost pushes him right off the bed) look singed in places, small holes that look slightly larger than the end of a cigarette, stained with sweat and mud and, what looks like (even though she hopes it isn’t) blood. “Remus, what the hell happened to you?”

He seems unconcerned, looking down to examine his clothing and holding his hands up lazily in front of his face. “It’s nothing, kitten. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?” Darcy asks, her voice very shrill. “What am I supposed to think? You leave for hours at a time without telling me anything, coming back at all hours of the day and night and acting as if you haven’t left, showing up looking like this—”

“Darcy, stop talking,” Lupin pleads with her, touching her chin with his index finger and kissing her lightly.

“Where’ve you been?” she whispers, feeling that if she continues to look at him much longer in this condition, she may begin to cry. “Have you been going out and getting yourself a beating every night?”

“Not every night, no,” he answers, kissing her jaw hungrily, cradling her face with one of his callused hands.

“What did you do?”

Lupin closes his eyes, looking exhausted. With a hand still upon Darcy’s cheek, his continues to brush his thumb distractedly against her cheek. “It doesn’t matter, Darcy. Stop asking.”

“How would you feel if I just disappeared for hours several times a day?” Darcy says, feeling a lump forming in her throat. “How would you feel if you didn’t know where I was going, or who I was with?”

“I would trust you to do your job,” Lupin replies.

“No, you wouldn’t.” Darcy slaps his hand away, moving to push him, but with the quickest reflexes she’s ever seen, Lupin repositions himself, holding both of her wrists in one of his large hands, pinning them over her head. “The first thing you’d do would be to ask me who I fucked, wouldn’t you?”

“Is that what you think?” Lupin snarls in her face. Darcy turns her head so she doesn’t have to look at him, ashamed of being slightly afraid, but her body betrays her. A warmth begins to pool in her core, a flush creeping up her neck. His eyes travel down her body, and she’s sure he notices her trying to inconspicuously roll her hips against him. “You think I’m out fucking someone else?”

“Are you?” Darcy asks, afraid to hear the answer. Perhaps it’s better to hear the answer presented to her straightforwardly. “Are you fucking someone else?”

“What do you think?”

Darcy scowls. “Is it so far-fetched to believe you’re fucking someone else? Forgive my mind for wandering, but no one is offering me a solid answer when I ask them what you’re up to.”

“Because it’s none of your business,” Lupin snaps, releasing his grip on Darcy’s wrists and rolling off her. “All you need to know is that I’m doing this for you, for _us_.”

She shakes her head, tears prickling at her eyes. “If you were doing this for me, then you wouldn’t go out and get yourself beat up. If you cared about what I wanted, you’d know I only want you to be safe.”

“How can you say that? Darcy, haven’t I proven to you that all I care about is what you want?” Lupin asks incredulously, and Darcy softens, feeling guilty at the hurt look that crosses his face. “I’m doing this so you can have everything you want, without having to fear another war. You think I’m being selfish? Noble?”

“I think you’re being reckless,” Darcy protests. “I just want you here. I want you safe. Why can’t you just stay out of trouble?”

“Stop this now, love.” His tone is not unkind, but it’s clear he’s weary of the conversation. His eyes flutter closed and his breathing grows heavier. “Don’t worry about me.”

Darcy kisses his cheek, earning her a small smile. Humiliated that she feels she has to bring it up, Darcy blushes, putting her lips very close to his ear. “Just promise me there’s no one else.”

His answer is quick, no hesitation. “There’s no one else.”

“Okay.” She smiles, but doesn’t quite believe him. “I just thought . . . you wanted me to be with you, to not go back to Hogwarts, and I’m here now, and it’s like you only want me when it’s convenient to you.”

“Come on, Darcy,” Lupin purrs, wrapping his arms around her and nuzzling his face into her neck. He places tender kisses along her jaw where he can reach without too much effort. “What do you want me to do?”

_Love me_. Darcy looks into his face for a long time, trying to figure out why she finds it so humiliating to just tell him what she wants. Of course she knows what she wants him to do—she wants Lupin to tell her that he loves her, and wants Lupin to swallow his insecurities and commit to her, promise to be with her, to stay with her, to stop disappearing without an explanation to offer her. But somehow, Darcy feels the words will sound childish and desperate coming from her lips.

She must look very sad, because Lupin’s expression is guilty and slightly apologetic. She tries to cut him some slack, especially since of late, all of his buried problems have seemingly bubbled to the surface to show off a side of him that isn’t ideal, but Darcy knows it’s still him, and it’s harder to be mad at people who are struggling through such problems while she’s rife with traumas and problems and insecurities of her own. She knows very well what it feels like to think you’re not good enough, knows the fear of commitment well enough, understands the feeling of never being understood.

“Are you running away from me?” Darcy breathes, hoping that he’ll give her an answer that won’t make her cry. “You’ve got what you wanted, and now you don’t want it anymore. Is it all too real for you now?”

Lupin’s ears turn pink first. Once he looks away from her, his cheeks flush. “I’m not running away.”

“Then what are you doing?” Darcy asks, brushing some dirt off his face. “I’m not asking you to marry me, Remus. I haven’t even asked you to say the words I know you’re so reluctant to say. All I want is for you to be with me, to keep me company, maybe to kiss me sometimes, talk to me.”

He has the grace to look ashamed of himself, at least. “Cover your shoulder,” he says bitterly, rolling over so as not to look at it. “I don’t want to look at it anymore.”

Darcy opens her mouth to protest, deciding at the last moment that this isn’t such an unreasonable request. She slips from bed and pulls a shirt off the back of a chair, pulling it on over her head. “Better?” she asks.

“No,” Lupin says. His blunt manner makes Darcy flinch, and she blushes furiously as he looks her over from the bed, feeling scrutinized, feeling as if he’s picking out all of her flaws. “I know it’s still there. Covering it doesn’t make it go away. It doesn’t change anything. I still did that to you. I hurt you.”

“I’m sorry.” Darcy touches her shoulder, fingering the scars beneath her shirt. “You should get some rest.”

She kisses his cheek and slips out of the room before he can convince her to stay.

* * *

“What are you cooking? It smells good.”

“Remus and I are having a nice dinner again tonight.” Darcy looks over her shoulder at Sirius, who’s looking wistfully at the sizzling duck with longing in his gray eyes. “Don’t be stupid, Sirius. I’ve already made one for you.”

Instantly, Sirius’ face lights up as Darcy motions with her head towards an already carved duck—meat upon meat upon meat. He races for it, seating himself at the kitchen table and thanking Darcy over and over again with grease dribbling down his chin and his mouth stuffed full of dark meat. Darcy laughs and shakes her head.

“I was thinking . . . maybe we could have our own dinner,” Darcy suggests, glancing quickly at Sirius to see if she can read his reaction. “I’ll make anything you like, just let me know. Anything to lure you from your bedroom.”

With a piece of breast meat pinched between his fingers, Sirius lowers his hand, looking uncharacteristically abashed. He wipes his face with a napkin, at least, proving that he still has some table manners, and pushes his long hair out of his face. “I’m sorry, Darcy,” he says to her back, and Darcy purses her lips, basting the duck with painfully hot juices. “I’ve been alone for a long time. I’m not used to sharing a home with anyone.”

“It’s okay,” Darcy says, shrugging her shoulders. “If you need your space, I . . . it’s fine, really.”

Sirius leans back in his chair, pushing his plate away. “I’m going to be honest, Darcy. I feel like there’s some bad . . . energy between us right now.”

Darcy turns slowly, a smile creeping on her face. With one eyebrow cocked, she leans against he counter with her arms folded over her chest. “Bad energy?” she repeats, laughing to herself.

“Yeah,” Sirius says, trying to sound casual, but only sounding awkward in the process. “You know . . . I feel like you’re mad at me about Gemma and I, er—yeah.”

Darcy clears her throat, blushing furiously. “I’m not mad,” she says quickly, only making it more awkward. This is the last conversation she wants to have with Sirius right now. He raises his eyebrows at her. “I’m not, honest. And, er . . I probably am the last person who should be mad about you sleeping with my best friend, so we’re . . . even?”

Sirius looks at her for a long time. “For the record, I’m still a little mad at Remus.”

“Not at me?”

“I can’t be mad at you, so I just focus my anger on Remus twice as much.”

“That can’t be good for you.”

“Everyday the anger lessens.” Sirius chuckles, but his smile quickly fades. “I know I scared you before, but . . .”

“It’s all right,” Darcy answers, feeling breathless, her cheeks still stinging in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I never should have—”

“No, no—you were curious, and . . . I shouldn’t have . . . I’m really sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“Okay.” Sirius doesn’t seem convinced, but he takes hold of his plate and gets to his feet. “I’ll just leave you, then . . . Remus will probably be here soon.”

“Oh. Sure. Right.” Darcy flattens the front of her dress. “Do I look all right?”

Sirius smiles fondly at her, tilting his head like a lost puppy dog. “Beautiful.” He clears his throat. “So, no bad energy?”

“No bad energy.”

“Good, good.” Sirius exhales in relief. “All right. Have fun tonight.”

When Sirius retreats back to his bedroom, Darcy begins to set up the drawing room just like Lupin had the last time they’d done this. She sorts through the records, putting one on at random, her heart beating faster all the while. She lights candles, placing the full plates on the table before the fire, moving the sofa closer and pushing the rest of the furniture off to the side. When the room is set up perfectly, a fire burning bright in the hearth, music floating through the room, Darcy checks her watch again.

5:55.

They’d agreed on six o’clock, and it makes Darcy slightly anxious that Lupin hasn’t come back yet. A few minutes late from guard duty, however, isn’t terrible. She decides to open a bottle of wine while she waits, hoping he’ll come back.

And yet, time continues to slip by with no sign from Lupin. Their dinner sits on the table, growing colder, and the record plays song after song after song, while Darcy continues to drink her wine, immediately refilling her glass. One hour passes and there’s no word from Lupin at all.

_Maybe he forgot_ , she tells herself, looking down at the food still untouched on the plates. _He was half asleep when we planned it. Maybe he thought it was tomorrow._

And with a swooping in her stomach, another part of her says, _or he just didn’t want to be here. Maybe he decided to spend time with someone else, out of the house, someone who isn’t a prisoner._ This thought makes her, not only extremely heartbroken, but jealous. Jealous at the idea that someone could easily distract Lupin from her, that someone could attract his attention much easier than she could. As deprecating and self-victimizing as Lupin is, there is no denying he is a handsome man, and it isn’t unrealistic to think that someone could have approached him and propositioned him while he was out . . . is it?

Or is it worse than a stranger? What if it’s Tonks?

After an hour and a half, Darcy begins to cry. She’s thankful for the music (though she had to replace the record a little bit ago) that covers the sound of her sobs. She doesn’t want Sirius to hear her crying, to realize that Lupin still has not returned. Darcy pulls the hairpin out of her auburn hair, letting it tumble in loose waves down her back and down her shoulders. She wants to rip the pretty, flowery dress right off her body, hating the feel of it pressing against her body, hating the feeling of looking so much like Aunt Petunia. The only reason she’d worn it is because Lupin seems to love the side of Darcy that is her Aunt Petunia—the flowers and the dresses and the poetry and the piano. She buries her face in her hands and cries into her palms, soaking her fingers until her eyes feel swollen.

She continues to drink, hating herself for crying so much, for slowing down the drinking process. All she wants is to be so drunk that she will not remember this night in the morning. Darcy makes her way to the kitchen, retrieving all the bottles of red wine she can find.

And at eight o’clock on the dot, Darcy’s ears perk up when she hears the front door open and close quietly. She waits for a moment, not wanting Lupin to see that she’s been crying. Maybe—if he has a really good excuse, a really good explanation as to why he’s two hours late for their nice dinner—she’ll forgive him and throw her arms around his neck and allow him to pepper her face in kisses to apologize. Darcy, feeling confident that Lupin will have such a good excuse, gets up from the sofa and throws the door of the drawing room open, freezing in the threshold.

It’s not Lupin. It’s Snape, hanging his traveling cloak on the coat rack. Darcy, as disappointed as she is, can’t help but to feel glad that Snape has arrived. If it had been Emily or Gemma, Darcy feels she’d be too humiliated to confess that she’d been stood up at her own home. But she walks right up to Snape, puffy eyes and all. He looks her up and down for a moment, narrowing his eyes as he examines her dress.

“Do you have news?”

“No.”

Darcy starts to cry again, just at the knowledge that Snape has come to see her when Lupin has not.

“Are you all right?” he asks, looking into her eyes again.

Darcy doesn’t know what to say. She falls into his chest, closing her eyes as his arms wrap around her, holding her tight to him. It makes her cry harder, staining the front of his robes with tears, feeling ashamed and foolish and childish. She wishes Lupin would walk through the door now, to see Snape holding her, comforting her, being so sweet to her. She wants Lupin to hurt, to feel the way that she feels, to know that she could have someone else, but chooses not to because she loves him so much.

She lifts her head from Snape’s chest. “Do you want dinner?” Darcy wipes her cheeks. “I cooked it myself.”

“Have you been drinking?”

Darcy nods. Snape hesitates, looking around as if to make sure no one can see them. Tired of his reluctance, not wanting to be rejected again tonight, Darcy takes Snape loosely by the hand and pulls him into the drawing room, where the romantic atmosphere makes her blush and she immediately lets go of his hand.

“I’m sorry it’s . . .” Darcy looks around and shrugs, wrapping her arms around herself as Snape examines the dinner plates, the candles, the record player. She’s suddenly very conscious of how she looks. “You can sit down. I’ll just . . . I’ll be right back, I need to change.”

“Why?” Snape asks, black eyes flicking up and down her body. It’s not an accusation in the slightest, more an innocent curiosity. His next words come with such a genuine sincerity she’s not heard from him before that it almost makes her cry. “You look nice.”

Darcy falters, slowly lowering her arms back to her sides. “Really?”

Snape’s cheeks flood with color, but he nods curtly all the same. “How long have you been waiting?” he asks flatly, looking at the candles and all the wax pooled at the bottom.

“Two hours.” Darcy slowly makes her way to the sofa. Snape sits beside her, careful to put distance between them. She takes her wand off the table, warming the cold food in front of them, suddenly struck with the realization that she’s never eaten dinner with Snape not surrounded by people in the Great Hall. “You can eat it, if you’d like. But if you hate it, can you just pretend otherwise?”

Thankfully, Snape smiles. Darcy watches him eat, nervously taking bites off her own plate and looking away when he catches her staring. “It’s very good, Darcy. You can stop scrutinizing me now.”

“Sorry.” Noticing her empty glass, Darcy reaches for the near empty bottle. “I hope you don’t mind if I drown myself in alcohol tonight. Seems only appropriate.”

“I’d rather you not, but if you feel you must . . .”

“I do. It’s my coping mechanism.” Darcy refills her wine glass, offering to pour Snape’s, as well, but he shakes his head and holds out a hand to stop her.

“You should find a different coping mechanism, then.” His tone is firm, but not as firm as it usually is when it comes to Darcy’s drinking habits.

Darcy finds this rather encouraging, hoping that this will not be a complete waste of a night. After all, it’s not that she’s disappointed Snape is here—on the contrary, she’s delighted that he’s shown up for no reason than to see her, for God knows he isn’t interested in socializing with the other inhabitant. Darcy wonders briefly what Sirius would do if he came down to find his goddaughter and Snape sharing a homemade meal by candlelight, but she doesn’t care. She almost feels guilty for wishing Lupin were here, though, instead of Snape.

“I could be using hard drugs,” Darcy teases softly, her heart not really in it. She wants him to feel welcome, to feel appreciated, but it’s hard when she doesn’t feel appreciated herself. “You should be grateful I’m only drinking.”

“I don’t think alcoholism is much better than hard drugs,” Snape tells her. “Some people just knit, you know, or exercise.”

“I would be more than grateful for some exercise that isn’t walking up and down the stairs a hundred times in a row.” Darcy impresses even herself with the duck she’s cooked. She drinks deeply from her glass. “I want to go outside again.”

“You will,” he assures her. “Give it time. It won’t be long now.”

Darcy gives him a sideways look as he picks clumsily at his duck with his fork, fussing with the bone. She smiles and looks away, back down at her plate. “You’ll have me back, then? Even if it’s not until after the summer?”

“As long as you’re not on hard drugs,” he says, scrunching his nose as the bone cracks.

“I’ll do my best.” Darcy looks back up at him again, pleased to find him looking back at her, even if he isn’t smiling.

“You look very nice tonight.”

Darcy blushes, trying to remember a time where Snape has complimented her so honestly and so bluntly. “You’ve said that already,” she whispers. “But thank you.”

It’s Snape’s turn to flush, giving his usually pallid face some healthy color. It’s a pleasant effect, especially when he pushes his hair out of his face, allowing Darcy to see him clearly. With much of his face typically hidden behind those greasy black curtains of his hair, it’s not a very pleasant look. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m just used to seeing you in your robes, or even in your uniform.”

Darcy laughs. “I haven’t worn my Hogwarts uniform in nearly two years.”

“But you wore it for seven years,” Snape replies quickly, as if trying to backtrack. He stabs moodily at his food with his fork. “Never mind. Perhaps we could speak of something else.”

“We can talk about whatever you want. It’s not like there’s anything new going on here.”

Snape talks for a little bit about classes, and Darcy enjoys it. It’s as if Snape knows exactly what will make her smile as he details stories about the students and incidents in classes. Darcy uses this time to finish off the first bottle and open a second. Snape gives her a wary look at this, still declining any for himself, but not asking her to stop drinking. Not that she would. Darcy encourages him to continue with eager nods and smiles. He tells her mostly about her first years, the students she misses the best (excluding the obvious), and offers her another bold compliment.

“They’ve learned much from you,” he says. “They’ll be well prepared second years.”

Darcy glows with pride—and drink. “Thank you.”

They’re quiet for a little while. Darcy fetches more food from the kitchen when they finish their plates, and it’s only when she walks down the narrow corridor does she realize how drunk she is. She can hardly walk a straight line, and the lights in the kitchen nearly blind her. Taking her time with the food, Darcy checks her watch reluctantly. Lupin is nearly three hours late now, there’s no denying that he’s forgotten. Or perhaps he just found something better to do.

_No, he wouldn’t do that to me_. It’s a good argument. It definitely doesn’t seem like Lupin to blow her off without a word, or at all. If Snape wasn’t here, Darcy imagines she’d be drunker than she is, alone and locked away in her bedroom. Part of her privately wants to keep Snape here until he comes home, just to see that Darcy has options, that other people love her, that she doesn’t need him. A lie, of course. Darcy does need him, very desperately, as much as she hates to admit it right now.

Darcy uses magic to bring the food back to the drawing room, not trusting herself to carry it. Thankfully, they both arrive in the drawing room unhurt and unblemished, and Darcy fills Snape’s plate once more. Being rather close to him in such an intimate setting is slightly uncomfortable, especially as Darcy feels his eyes glued to her face as she pushes the rest of the duck onto his plate. Her heart races inside of her chest, and when she stands up straight again and nearly collapses onto the sofa, Darcy pours herself another glass of wine, hoping that if she drinks enough, it will make everything that much easier. But she knows herself, and she knows that in time, she’ll end up going off on some drunken rant that will likely embarrass her in front of Professor Snape. But she keeps drinking anyway.

“You’re not going to throw me into the bath again if I get too drunk, are you?” Darcy slurs twenty minutes later, refilling her cup yet again.

“If you vomit on me, I’ll have no choice,” Snape replies.

Darcy suddenly smiles. “You’re funny, Professor Snape,” she chuckles. “People say you’re not, but you are. I think you are, anyway. Can you change the record?”

Looking slightly pleased with himself, Snape waves his wand to do it, not bothering to get up. It’s a nice little trick, seemingly complicated as the record replaces itself smoothly with another one. They’re quiet again for a minute or two, listening to the abrupt change in music, from a lovely and floating piano song to a dark waltz that sounds almost ominous.

“Dinner was very good,” Snape tells her, breaking the comfortable silence they’ve fallen into. “I know it wasn’t for me, but . . . I didn’t realize you were such a cook.”

“Domestic life suits me better than you thought, doesn’t it?” Darcy jokes, glad to see he doesn’t take this too seriously. “If you knew me, you’d know that I am, one hundred percent, absolutely housewife material. You can thank Aunt Petunia for my table manners—”

“—yet to be observed.”

She laughs again. “My table manners, cooking ability, knowledge of poetry, and my skill with the piano.”

“And you like to do those things?” Snape asks, sitting up straight and turning slightly to face her. His chin looks much stronger in the firelight. Darcy tilts her head to the side. “Recite poetry? Play the piano?”

Darcy has to think for a moment. She hadn’t at all been prepared for such a loaded question, nor is she really sober enough to give it a whole lot of thought. But she tries. “I suppose so, sometimes,” she says, meeting his eyes and wondering if he’s thought at all about delving into her mind since he’s been here. “I know a lot of poems, and I like a lot of them. And I’m good at the piano.”

Snape nods slowly, as if in agreement.

She swallows hard, looking away quickly, not wanting to look into his eyes anymore. Instead, Darcy looks into the fire. “I don’t like being shown off. That’s why Aunt Petunia made me do all those things, so she could show me off to her friends and their sons. I don’t like that . . . being a possession, a trophy.” She runs a hand through her hair, leaning back against the back of the sofa. “I do like playing the piano and reading and sharing poetry. I just want it to be on my terms, do you know what I mean?”

He nods again.

Darcy inhales deeply. “It’s a part of me, and I’ve accepted that—truly, I have. But I don’t want people to think that’s all there is to me. I don’t want to be seen as that—as Aunt Petunia. I mean, I doubt Aunt Petunia could even recite as many poems as I could. She can’t even play the piano.” She hisses the last part, feeling close to tears. “I’m more than that, and no one ever notices, no one ever cares. They see the parts of me that are Aunt Petunia or my mother and father, and they think that’s it. But it’s not. I’m not just Aunt Petunia. I’m not just Lily Evans or James Potter. I’m more than that, and no one cares.”

Snape is quiet. When Darcy looks at him again, his eyes are roving over her face as if he’s never seen her up close before.

“Sometimes you look at me and I know you aren’t seeing Darcy.” Darcy allows his black eyes to wash over her, seemingly taking in every minute detail. “Not right now, though. You’re seeing me right now.”

Snape shifts uncomfortably, looking over his shoulder towards the closed door of the drawing room. For a heartbreaking moment, Darcy thinks he’s desperate to leave. And then, he inches closer to her. Darcy’s breath hitches, watching him move awkwardly on the cushions. He still leave space between them, but Darcy feels it’s far too close for right now. Yet, part of her is grateful for his comfort, for his presence.

“You mean a lot to me, Professor Snape,” she whispers. “Do you know that?”

Looking as if saying the words are physically painful, Snape breathes, “You are very precious to me, Darcy.”

Darcy forgets to breathe for a moment. His words knock the wind out of her, and her heart beats faster. “Do you think that I’ll forget what you said in the morning?”

Snape’s sallow cheeks turn pink again. “If I’m lucky.”

Swallowing very hard, Darcy glances down at his arm. “Show it to me. Just this one last time.”

As if against his better judgement, Snape holds out his left arm for her. Darcy holds his hand gently in her own, looking into his eyes as her fingers touch his sleeve. His jaw is clenched right, but he doesn’t protest as Darcy pushes his sleeve up to reveal his Dark Mark. It seems darker against his pale skin than the last time she’d seen it. Again, she traces the outline of it lightly with her index fingers. Snape stills, so still that he might have been dead.

“Do you regret it?” she asks, unsure if she’s crossed a line with this question. “Do you wish things could have been different?”

Snape gives her a warning look, but then it’s gone and his dark eyes are soft again. “That’s a very loaded question, and one I would rather not discuss, especially when you smell of wine.”

Something about this answer sends a shiver down her spine. “I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“No,” Snape says softly, firmly. “Are you not afraid of it?”

“No.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “Is that the Gryffindor in you speaking, or the wine?”

“Probably mostly the wine.” Darcy hesitates, brushing the pad of her thumb over the Dark Mark. Snape flinches, but doesn’t tell her to stop. It feels slightly raised from his skin, not smooth like she thought it would be. “You’re one of us now, aren’t you? I have nothing to be afraid of.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

Darcy decides not to answer this retort. Instead, she lowers his sleeve and touches the neckline of her dress. Snape furrows his brow, pulling his hand away from hers as she pushes the fabric and her bra strap to the side to reveal the three long, violent scars. With a shaking hand, Snape reaches out to touch them, caressing them with such a gentle touch that it almost reminds her of Lupin. The thought of him makes her heart break all over again. He aligns his fingers with them, his face darkening, his lip curling at the sight of them.

She catches his wrist and lowers his hand from her shoulder before he can say anything cruel. “I don’t care what you’ve done in the past,” Darcy tells him, and she can hardly believe how freeing it is to say it outloud. “I care that you’ve saved my life, offered me a place at Hogwarts at your side. I care that you came here tonight to see me.”

Snape inhales deeply, digesting these words. Darcy raises her eyebrows, lifting his hand to her face. His fingers thread through her red hair, and she frowns at the pained look on his face. Snape touches her face as Lupin might, as if trying to memorize the feel of her skin, the angle of her jaw, the shape of her chin. His fingers glide across her skin in a way that Lupin’s does not, but she much prefers the rough feel of Lupin’s callused fingers to Snape’s. But Lupin isn’t here, and Snape is.

Darcy waits for it to come, a kiss that she’s so sure Snape will initiate. She doesn’t know if she’d turn away or not, doesn’t know if she’d kiss him back or just allow him to kiss her still, unmoving lips. She thinks of the hurt it would cause Lupin, for him to know she allowed Snape to kiss her, for him to know she’d kissed him back, for him to finally come home and walk in on such an intimate scene—the intimate scene that was supposed to be for him, not Snape.

Armed with this knowledge, drunk, her pulse pounding in her ears, Darcy makes the move, leaning in so close that she can taste his breath against her lips. Snape blinks in surprise, catching her face in her hands, his palms cold upon her cheeks.

“Stop,” he commands, and Darcy obeys, the tip of their noses touching just barely. “You’re drunk, Darcy.”

“I thought this is what you wanted,” Darcy murmurs, blushing hard.

Snape’s thumbs brush over her cheekbones before he lowers his hands to his lap. Darcy moves away from him, tears welling in her eyes. “It’s not what you want,” he answers.

“I . . .” Darcy struggles for speech, humiliated beyond belief. In a voice hardly more than a pained whisper, she feels the first tear slip down her cheek as she regains her ability to speak. “I just want someone to love me.”

“You want Lupin to love you,” Snape says, the ghost of a scowl quickly crossing his face. “You don’t want this. You don’t want me.” He gets to his feet slowly, reluctantly, hesitantly, looking down at her only for a second, unable to hold her gaze. “I shouldn’t have come here tonight. Good-night, Darcy.”

Darcy watches him leave, hurt that he doesn’t look back once. Just once, a glance over his shoulder, and he would have seen her crying hard into her hands. Embarrassed, Darcy cleans up. Snape’s rejection and Lupin’s behavior stings painfully, makes her heart ache so much that it affects her breathing. Or she could just be panicking. Darcy thinks it’s more likely to be her broken heart. Once she puts everything back to the way it was, she goes to bed, not bothering to say good-night to Sirius, who she can hear shuffling around inside of his room.

She doesn’t know what time it is when Lupin slips into bed with her, kissing the back of her neck sweetly, over and over again.

“I’m so sorry, my love, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs against her skin, kissing everywhere that her skin is accessible. She continues to feign sleep. “Darling, I know you probably don’t want anything to do with me right now, and I know that’s a very valid thing to think after tonight, but I come bearing news—news that involves you.”

“I’m not interested in whatever news you have,” Darcy whispers as his hand touches the bit of skin showing between the bottom of her shirt and the top of her shorts. “Can you please go?”

“Someone wants to meet with you.” Lupin sighs, pulling his hand away. “Someone who took a great interest in your article.”

Darcy tenses, rolling over so abruptly that Lupin jumps. “What is that supposed to mean? Have you been skulking about with the werewolves again?”

“I’ve found a small community that’ll help us, for a price. The boy who wants to speak with you . . . he’s not the leader, but he’ll do. You remember, from St Mungo’s?”

“That boy that was sweet on Gemma?”

“Liam. That’s the one.”

Feeling very sick to her stomach, Darcy sighs loudly. “Is that where you were tonight?”

He nods. “I’m so sorry. I know tonight was important for you, and I feel awful, Darcy, truly. I’ve been talking to them for weeks now, but I’ve got them. I did it. I did it.”

“Oh God . . .” Darcy holds her face in her hands, guilt washing over her. She can’t look at him smiling in the darkness. She was going to _kiss_ Snape just to get back at him, to purposefully hurt him.

Lupin pauses, taking her hands in his and lowering them to look her in the face. “Are you all right?”

“I’m an idiot.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you’d be angry and tell me not to go,” he confesses sheepishly. “And if you’d asked me not to, it would have been very hard for me not to stay.”

Darcy kisses him hard on the mouth, taking him by surprise. He responds with a certain enthusiasm, smiling against her lips, his hands settling on her waist as she climbs on top of him. When she pulls away from him to pull her shirt over her head, Lupin drags his fingers lightly down her bare stomach. Breathing very heavily, her nerves jangling, Darcy takes his wrists in her long fingers, bringing his hands up to cup her breasts.

“Does this mean you’re not angry with me?” Lupin asks, looking too hopeful for his own good, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

“Depends on how good you fuck me.” Darcy raises an eyebrow.

Lupin tilts his head back and laughs, making her smile. “That’s a lot of pressure. I don’t perform well under pressure. Would a simple ‘I’m sorry’ suffice, and then I could just fuck you without the stress that comes with a judged performance?”

“We’ll work out the details later.” Darcy combs her fingers through his hair. Lupin grins wider. “When we discuss your performance—”

“No!” Lupin groans, laughing again.

“—in thorough detail.”

“You’re killing me,” he teases, pulling her to him. Her hair falls down on either side of his face and he pushes it back, tucking it behind her ears. “You wouldn’t really tell me if I was awful, would you?”

“Of course not.”

“I swear,” Lupin says hoarsely, offering her the sweetest smile she’s ever seen. “You’re an angel.”


	59. Chapter 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to my fellow Americans who are currently suffering from the polar vortex: know that I share your pain, know that this cold has brought back my old lady smoker’s cough, and know that I am dying of cold and my fingers are still numb from when I was outside for three minutes smoking a cigarette like thirty minutes ago. Stay warm, friends.

“Are you _mad_? You can’t bring him here!”

“It’s too late for that. He’s coming tomorrow. And I told him you’d be here.”

“What’d you tell him that for?”

Lupin laughs, following Darcy and Gemma down the stairs. “Come on, Gemma, the bloke fancies you. Put him at ease by batting your eyelashes once or twice.” When Gemma looks over her shoulder to scowl at him, Lupin laughs again. “I need you here. He’s going to ask you about your potion.”

“You’re an expert,” Gemma retorts coldly, crossing into the kitchen with him hot on their heels. “You can’t just bring anyone you want here.”

“He’s not just anyone,” Lupin protests, taking a seat at the kitchen table while Gemma fusses with some mugs, sniffing one of them before reaching for the screaming kettle over the fire. “Do you actually think I’d bring someone here that I thought was a danger? I’ve spent weeks talking to this community and they aren’t like the others. They’re not just in hiding from Voldemort, they’re in hiding from the other packs. From Greyback. And if we want to make allies, we need to allow him in. He needs to talk to Darcy. And if things go badly, we Obliviate him.”

It had been early—too early—when Gemma had waltzed into Darcy’s bedroom, not having expected to find both Darcy and Lupin, stark naked, in bed together. She had mentioned something about important gossip, but it must have been completely wiped from her brain at the sight of them. After a shriek and a string of curse words had left her lips, Gemma had left them, but focuses all of her bitter energy towards Lupin, who had shortly afterwards delivered news she wasn’t keen on hearing—that she had to be part of the meeting between he, Darcy, and Liam.

“That’s your plan if things go badly?” Gemma asks, sitting down across from Lupin, at Darcy’s right side. “We Obliviate him? You realize Memory Charms can be broken?”

Lupin’s face darkens. He looks at Gemma in a way he’s certainly never looked at Darcy before, a kind of warning, the way he’d looked at Peter when he’d been writhing on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. “We’re not killing him,” he says in a low voice, in a tone that brooks no argument. Darcy, bewildered, turns to look at Gemma, who looks unabashed. “A Memory Charm will suffice. Sirius is very good at them.”

“Oh, you’re going to have Sirius involved in this?” Gemma raises her eyebrows nearly to her hairline as Lupin shrugs his shoulders, clearly tired of arguing with her. “Darcy is one thing, but Sirius is quite another. If you bring that boy here and he sees Sirius, what do you think he’s going to think?”

“I wasn’t planning on bringing them face to face. Thank you for your faith in my common sense,” Lupin hisses, rubbing his temples. “He can sit in while in his Animagus form.”

Gemma looks wary, cupping her tea in her hands and licking her lips. “If you’ve put your trust in the wrong person, and they see me here and know who I am, then he cannot leave here alive.”

“Who’s getting killed?”

The kitchen door opens suddenly to reveal a bleary-eyed Sirius, yawning obnoxiously, his shoulders popping as he stretches. His dark hair tousled, clad in a deep v-neck t-shirt, his pajama pants low on his bony hips, Sirius drops into the empty seat beside Lupin. He looks expectantly between the three of them before Lupin takes it upon himself to answer under Gemma’s heated and scrutinizing gaze.

“We’re having a visitor tomorrow, Sirius,” Lupin explains, holding his hands together on the table in front of him, turning to his old friend. “When Arthur was in St Mungo’s, he shared a ward with a boy who’d been bitten by a werewolf. I must have told you. We crossed paths again a few weeks ago when I found the community he’d taken to living in. He recognized me, remembered me, and was interested in talking to Darcy.”

“Didn’t he send in a letter?” Sirius asks, furrowing his brow as comprehension dawns on him. “The boy that was fond of Gemma.”

Gemma doesn’t miss a beat. “Jealous, Black?”

“You wish,” Sirius scoffs, but Darcy thinks he sounds slightly bitter. “What does he want with our Darcy?”

“He didn’t tell me, but I have an idea. The poor boy looks like a gust of wind could knock him right over. I’m sure he’s interested in some sort of deal in order to make sure he’s supplied with whatever potions he needs.” Lupin shrugs, looking from Darcy to Gemma and back again.

“Hang on,” Gemma says quickly, holding up a hand to stop him. “Did you tell him we’re running a charity? Sales are down for the potion because of the open prejudice against werewolves—no one wants to walk in and admit to what they are, and the ingredients aren’t exactly cheap. No offense, but I can’t just supply an entire community month after month after month. I don’t have the money for that.”

“I’m not asking for you to promise anything except that you’ll hear him out,” Lupin replies, his voice becoming gruffer. “Just . . . will you do it or not, Gemma? Do it for me, would you?”

Gemma gives him an incredulous and exasperated look. “For you?” she repeats dramatically, rolling her eyes. “Well, in that case . . . I suppose I can’t refuse, can I?”

“All right,” Lupin scowls. “No need to get smart about it.”

Gemma picks at her fingernails. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Darcy and Sirius lock eyes across the table, seemingly on the same page. Darcy offers to make everyone breakfast, immediately standing and busying herself. A silence settles over everyone, and then Sirius decides it’s his turn to speak.

“How was dinner last night?” he asks casually, and Darcy’s heart stops momentarily. She hadn’t even had the chance to explain to Sirius about last night, hadn’t had the chance to tell him how Lupin hadn’t shown. With her back to them all, Darcy closes her eyes, planning on lying her way out of this, because she doesn’t know that Sirius, of all people, would take the news that she had spent all evening with Snape very well at all.

The memory of what she’d tried to do haunts her, and a blush creeps up the back of her neck, thankfully hidden by her hair. The truth of the matter is, Darcy isn’t ashamed in the slightest of spending time with Snape, but she had jumped to conclusions about Lupin far too quickly, and she had been prepared to kiss Snape out of spite. And even that isn’t as shameful as actually getting rejected by the man—Snape, who’d always made his intentions clear when he wanted to, whether he wanted to hold her hand or touch her face or kiss her, had plainly and bluntly rejected her, and it had hurt. Not that Darcy was disappointed that she didn’t kiss Snape, but the idea that he’d pushed her away when all she wanted was affection, to be loved . . . she can’t think of anything more humiliating.

When no one answers, Darcy glances quickly over her shoulder to find Lupin looking right at her. She clears her throat. “It was fine,” she says meekly.

“You certainly came back late,” Sirius tells Lupin, clicking his tongue in mock disapproval. Darcy tries to silently tell her godfather to shut up, but he doesn’t seem to understand what she’s attempting to do. “Thought you weren’t going to come at all. I was in half a mind to punch you good—for Darcy’s sake, of course, Moony—but I should have known you’d turn up in the end.”

Lupin narrows his eyes, eyes flicking from Sirius to Darcy. “I didn’t make it home until well after midnight last night.”

Sirius blinks in surprise. Gemma looks delighted, trying very hard to hide her smile behind her cup of tea, looking at Darcy with her wide eyes, hungry for gossip. Lupin doesn’t look half as amused as Gemma, his jaw clenched tight and a muscle jumping in his cheek. It seems, to Darcy, like he already knows what was going on, but she knows he’s going to make her say it.

“Who was here?” Sirius asks her, his voice slightly higher than it had been. “I thought it was Remus. Around eight, someone came. I heard the door open and close.”

Darcy blushes in earnest, turning her back on them again. “It’s nothing. Professor Snape came last night and I didn’t want dinner to go to waste.”

“Snape was here?” Sirius asks loudly, sounding more outraged than Darcy thinks is necessary. “Merlin’s . . . if I’d known it was Snape, I would have had a few choice words for him—”

“Would you ease up on him, Sirius?” Darcy snaps, whirling around and glaring at him, crossing her arms over her chest to make a point. She forces herself to avoid Lupin’s burning stare, an accusing one, one that makes the blush stick to her cheeks. “Not like you care, but he’s kind to me, and it was nice of him to come by last night, especially since _you_ decided to not show up.” She turns her attention on Lupin, who scrunches his nose.

“I gave you my reasoning and I apologized, multiple times,” Lupin hisses, looking tense. “But you forgot to tell me that important detail, didn’t you? Go on, then, Darcy. What did Severus want?”

“I think we all know what Snape wants from her.” Sirius laughs mirthlessly. His words make Lupin flush angrily. “I bet he was absolutely _delighted_ to see that Remus wasn’t here, and was even more delighted to have a romantic, candlelit dinner with Darcy.”

Darcy ignores Sirius completely, but still blushes. “If you had told me what you were up to, maybe I wouldn’t have been so quick to invite Snape to eat with me. I was hurt, you know.”

“Well, now I know to tell you every little thing I’m involved in so you don’t invite other men to have candlelit dinners with you,” Lupin snarls, reaching for the day’s newspaper in front of Gemma, opening it and promptly hiding behind it.

“I didn’t _invite_ him,” Darcy counters, ignoring the wide-eyed look being shared between Sirius and Gemma. “He just showed up. And for the record, you don’t have to tell me every little thing, but you could have least told me you weren’t going to be able to make it so I wasn’t waiting for you like a fool. You humiliated me in front of Professor Snape.”

“Why do you still call him ‘Professor Snape’?” Sirius asks distractedly, looking as if he’s just smelled something terrible. “

Gemma leans forward across the table, whispering, but loud enough that Darcy can still hear every word being said. “I think it’s a power trip thing on his part,” she says to Sirius.

“Like a sex thing?” Sirius whispers back, earning himself a deadly look from both Darcy and Lupin.

“Maybe,” Gemma smirks, smiling sweetly over her shoulder at Darcy. “Could be a weird kink, I suppose. Maybe he gets off on it. Does Remus make you call him ‘Professor Lupin’ in bed, Darcy?”

“All right!” Lupin lowers the newspaper on the table, looking equal parts mortified and furious. Pointing an accusing finger at Gemma, he inhales deeply. “What is your problem?”

“Oh, _my_ problem?” Gemma snorts. “I postponed my mini-vacation due to a surplus of patients at St Mungo’s only to find that you’ve arranged for me to meet with a stranger in the headquarters of the Order on my first day off, risking my neck for your own gain.”

“He isn’t a stranger. You cared for him for weeks,” Lupin replies, huffing impatiently and reaching for the paper again. “And don’t pretend I don’t realize what you’re risking by being here. Maybe you won’t believe that I do care—even if it’s just a little bit in the very bottom of my heart—what could happen to you, but you’re a fool to think I’d do anything to risk Darcy’s life, or Sirius’.”

“Fine, I'll do it, but certainly not for you.” Gemma snatches the newspaper right from Lupin’s hands and situates herself in her chair more comfortably. “And if I think one single thing is out of place, I want him Obliviated and dropped on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean without a wand _and_ without a tongue.”

“Christ, Gemma,” Darcy says, laughing nervously, hoping it’s a joke. “Take it down a few notches, would you?”

Lupin, however, seems happy enough with this. “Talk about what Darcy and I do in bed again, and you’ll get the same.”

“Someone would notice I’m missing in the first five minutes.” Gemma gives him an innocent, toothy smile across the table that he doesn’t return. “Come on, Darcy, want to go upstairs and discuss everything that happened last night in thorough detail leaving no parts at all out and dramatically retelling the juicy parts?”

Lupin rolls his eyes again and Sirius chuckles.

“I’m _joking_ ,” Gemma says, making a noise of disgust. “Get that stick out of your arse, Lupin.”

* * *

“You almost kissed Snape?”

“Yeah, out of spite,” Darcy hisses from the corner of her mouth. “I thought Remus was standing me up, I thought he was out rolling around in bed with another woman. You’re like, sixty-five percent of my impulse control. I really could have used you here to slap me across the face three times.”

“Sixty-five percent?” Gemma asks with a laugh. “How do you reckon that one?”

“Anything that you encourage is probably something I shouldn’t do, which actually helps quite well,” Darcy replies, her heart beating quickly within her chest as she continues to pace the drawing room floor. “Emily’s twenty-five percent my impulse control and Remus is the other ten.”

“Remus is only ten percent of your impulse control?” Gemma asks again, cocking an eyebrow. She crosses one of her legs over the other, letting herself sink into the soft and squashy cushions of the sofa.

“Considering the fact that he did absolutely nothing to stop me from fucking him as a student proves that his judgement is just as terrible as mine.”

“Did you actually want to kiss Snape?”

“No. Well, yes. _No_. I mean,” Darcy clears her throat, “I did when I thought Remus was out fucking someone else. I mean . . . I’m not interested in doing it like, right now.”

“So it was a spite kiss.”

“That’s literally what I just said, so we’re back to where we started,” Darcy frowns. She runs her fingers through her hair, sighing heavily.

“So why didn’t you kiss him?” Gemma opens her eyes, looking curiously at Darcy, watching her pace. “I mean, that’s total bragging rights. How many people can actually say they kissed Snape and he wasn’t insulted?”

“He didn’t want me to kiss him,” Darcy continues, feeling slightly insulted herself. The memory had haunted her the morning after their dinner; Snape wasn’t lucky by any means, for she still remembers everything that was said. “He said I was drunk, and that I didn’t want it. He knew I was just angry with Remus, is all. And before that, he said I was precious to him.”

“Was he drunk?”

“No.”

“Has he lost his mind?”

“I don’t think so.” Darcy checks her watch and clenches her jaw.

Gemma strokes her chin, thoughtful. And then, her eyebrows knit together, and she blurts out, “Darcy, he’s in love with you. You were sitting there, drunk and heartbroken, and he had every chance to kiss you, but he didn’t.”

“Whatever. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Darcy stops pacing before the fire, standing with her back to it. “I’m really nervous, Gemma.”

“About what?”

“About having this meeting. They should be back any minute.”

Gemma sighs heavily, pushing herself to her feet with a grunt. She walks right up to Darcy, looks her over curiously, examining the outfit she’s put on (something that Gemma had chosen, to make her look older), and then, without warning, Gemma slaps Darcy right across the face.

Though it doesn’t hurt as much as it surprises her, Darcy’s hand jumps to her cheek as she stumbles, slightly disoriented. “Fuck—ouch! What are you playing at?” she growls, rubbing her stinging cheek gently. “Why’d you have to hit me?” She goes to swat Gemma across the face in return, but Gemma expects this and catches her wrist, giggling as Darcy struggles.

“Because you’re being stupid,” Gemma laughs, flinching as Darcy’s fingertips swat at her cheek. “Listen, you wanted to be a part of the Order, and this is your chance to prove that you belong in it. You just have to put on your Darcy Potter face.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Darcy asks, feeling that this may be more trouble than it’s worth. She doesn’t know what she’s so nervous about, truthfully. Maybe it’s the idea of speaking to someone face to face about her article (she reminds herself over and over that Liam’s letter had been sweet, and she’s sure he won’t be angry with her), or it’s the idea of having someone new to talk to. “My Darcy Potter face?”

“Let me tell you something, my lion. If I were you, if I was Darcy Potter, you’d better believe I’d use that to my advantage every day of my life.” Gemma’s brown eyes glitter with excitement, with hunger. “You’re influential—or you could be, if you chose to be. You need to put on the face you wore around Ludo Bagman—”

“Don’t talk about Ludo Bagman to me,” Darcy snaps, giving Gemma a withering look. The pain of his abrupt departure still hurts deep in a corner of her heart.

“That’s it! That’s the face!” Gemma smiles, nodding eagerly. “The face you’d wear if the Minister of Magic were sitting right here in front of you.”

Darcy nods slowly, remembering the composure she’d shown in front of Fudge, in front of Umbridge, not wanting them to see her as a frightened little girl. The face she’d worn to the Ministry of Magic when she’d accompanied Mr. Weasley that day two summers ago, the face she’d worn to the Yule Ball when she tried to weasel information from Ludo Bagman.

The door to the drawing room is pushed open and they both quiet, turning towards the entrance. It’s only Sirius—or Snuffles—prancing towards them. Darcy can’t help but to smile at the bear-like, shaggy black dog, kneeling down to scratch behind his ears. When Darcy finishes, Gemma pets him enthusiastically, laughing as his tail wags back and forth.

“Who’s a good boy?” Gemma asks in a mock baby voice, scratching under his chin and on the sides of his long face. “Who’s a good little boy?” Sirius barks happily, his tail whipping Darcy’s thigh. “You’re enjoying this far too much, Sirius.”

He barks again, and Darcy hears the locks on the front door begin to click open. Two minutes later, with the two of them sitting at the kitchen table—Gemma at the head, Darcy on her left, with Sirius lying at her feet—Lupin walks in with a nervous looking boy at his heels. As Lupin takes his seat beside Darcy, motioning for Liam to sit across from them, she gets a good look at him, hardly recognizable from the last time she’d seen him in St Mungo’s over Christmas.

Liam can’t be much older than Darcy—when she’d seen him in the hospital, she’d put his age around twenty-five or so, but this Liam looks much older, much the same way Lupin does. His curly hair, once a sweet gold color, seems grayer overall and more unruly, still smoothed back out of his face. But even his face is changed—it’s thinner, there are dark shadows under his eyes, and even his skin seems gray. There’s an angry scar just visible at the collar of his ragged and stained t-shirt, most of it covered by the fabric. Thankfully, his face seems unaffected, but his arms are covered in self-inflicted bite and scratch marks. And perhaps the thing that disturbs Darcy the most is the way he shakes—a violent tremor that seems to worsen and then get better, but never stop completely. There’s also a thin sheen of sweat upon his forehead. This is not the same angry boy she’d met briefly at St Mungo’s, and judging by Gemma’s expression, she’s thinking the same thing.

Everyone looks to Darcy, and she swallows hard, changing to her ‘Darcy Potter’ face and smiling sweetly at him. “Hi, Liam. I’m Darcy.”

“I know,” he rasps, standing quite still in the threshold. “You were at St Mungo’s visiting Arthur. And I saw your picture in the papers.”

“Come sit down,” she says again.

Liam eyes Sirius warily under the table before looking at Darcy again. “Does he bite?”

“No,” Darcy answers, giving Sirius a quick pet. “Are you hungry, Liam?” He nods quickly. “Gemma, could you get Liam some food?”

Part of her feels very pleased with herself that Gemma obeys without question, excusing herself to go to the pantry. Within minutes and with the help of some magic, Gemma procures a plateful of sandwiches for him. Liam looks around at everyone, still trembling, and begins to eat the sandwiches as if he hasn’t eaten in months.

“Where have you been living?” Darcy asks quietly.

He swallows loudly the large bite of sandwich in his mouth. “Cornwall. Just outside Camborne.”

“How long have you been there?”

“A couple of months.”

“How did you find the place?”

“There was a Healer at St Mungo’s . . . his brother is a werewolf, and he pointed me in the direction of his brother. Jamie, was his name. Jamie told me where I could find the place.”

“What about your family?”

“I’m Muggleborn,” Liam confesses with his mouth full of food. “My parents don’t know what I am, and I have no intention of telling them. I’ve got a little sister, and I can’t . . . I can’t be around them. They wouldn’t understand.”

Darcy gives him an understanding smile. “What’s your sister’s name?”

“Anna.”

“Do you have a picture of her?”

Liam sits up straighter, looking afraid. With his chest heaving a little harder than it had been, he looks around at everyone again. Slowly, he reaches into the pocket of his faded jeans and pulls out a worn-looking wallet. He withdraws a small picture from inside, placing it on the table and sliding it across to Darcy. She takes it and smiles at the sight of a little girl not older than twelve, fair of skin with golden hair like her brother’s falling in ringlets down to her shoulders, a light blue bow in her hair and a pretty dress to match. The girl doesn’t move in the photograph.

“She’s beautiful,” Darcy tells him honestly, passing the picture back to Liam. “I’ve never seen her at Hogwarts. Is she a witch?”

“No. She wouldn’t have gone anyway. We lived in France for a time before moving here.” Liam finishes the last sandwich on the plate and sighs uncomfortably, rubbing his stomach. And then, not knowing it’s going to happen, Liam bends over and gives a great heave, vomiting at his feet.

Gemma is the first to jump up, whether out of instinct or concern, Darcy isn’t sure. She Vanishes the vomit as he wipes the corners of his mouth on a napkin offered to him by Lupin, his eyes watering. He murmurs a sheepish apology, and Gemma shakes her head. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

“Dunno,” Liam answers, his voice hoarse and soft. “I’ve eaten some things here and there.”

“That was my fault,” Gemma says apologetically, resuming her seat at the end of the table. “I shouldn’t have given you so much food. Are you all right?”

Liam nods, avoiding Gemma’s eyes, looking paler than he had before and slightly sweatier. “What is this place?” he asks Darcy, still shaking. “There’s heads on the walls out there . . . is this your house?”

“It’s my godfather’s house,” Darcy says with a small smile as Sirius wags his tail against her leg. “And mine, too, I suppose. But it came to us like this. I’m not very fond of the decorations, but unfortunately, we’ve been unable to remove them.” She looks sideways at Lupin, who seems to know exactly what it is she wants to say. He nods encouragingly, smiling at her. Turning back to Liam, Darcy says, “This house is headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix, a secret society founded by Albus Dumbledore to fight against Voldemort.”

Liam blinks in surprise at the name, but whether or not he flinches, Darcy can’t tell due to his tremor.

Darcy purses her lips, leaning forward slightly. “Why did you want to meet with me, Liam?”

It looks as if Liam’s been dreading this. His eyes sweep the kitchen again. “I need help, and I don’t know where else to go.”

She nods. “What do you need help with?”

Liam places his hands on the table, splaying his fingers on the tabletop. “I can’t . . . I can’t live like this. The pain is . . . unbearable, and not just during full moon, but all the time. I just want to be normal again . . . I want it to be gone.”

Darcy frowns, her heart aching. Beside her, Lupin begins to shift restlessly in his chair. She takes hold of his hand and he sighs deeply, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. Darcy speaks as though there’s been no interruption. “You know there’s no cure,” she says apologetically. “What would you have me do, Liam?”

“I—I—I need the potion. I need Wolfsbane, I need . . . it’s so expensive and I can’t—I can’t keep a job, I can’t—everyone in the Wizarding world knows what I am . . . St Mungo’s was legally obligated to report the attack and it has ruined me,” Liam stammers, looking close to tears. “If I could just . . . have something that makes it more manageable, I . . .” He trails off, looking pained and panicked, his shaking getting worse. “I can’t live like this for the rest of my life . . . sleeping on the floor of a cold, condemned house with several others, sharing what little food we can find or steal . . . please, Miss Potter . . . I need help.”

Darcy looks at Gemma quickly. Her face is stony, unreadable, and her gaze is fixed upon Liam’s pathetic and heartbreaking display. Lupin’s hand grips hers tighter beneath the table. “So why come to me?” Darcy asks, hoping he’ll be honest and upfront with her. She knows what he wants, but would rather he just ask and get it over with. “What do you think I could do for you that Gemma couldn’t? It is, after all, her genius that created this potion.”

Liam licks his lips, breathing very heavily, pointing at Lupin. “He said you’re a friend to the werewolves . . . to those like me, like him. Your article, I . . . I’m only twenty-four . . . I’ve only been through a few transformations, but I can’t keep doing this . . .”

“It’s the shock,” Lupin says abruptly, making everyone’s eyes flick to him. “The first few transformations were the worst for me. I still remember them vividly, and they were thirty years ago. But I’ve managed. Some months were worse than others, and sometimes I felt like I wasn’t able to do another one, but I always did. And I continued to manage.”

Liam’s eyes fill with tears and he shakes his head. “ _Thirty_ . . . oh, God . . .” Running a hand through his hair, he looks once more at Darcy with a very desperate look to him. “Please . . . all I’m asking for are potions . . . just enough to get me through the next few months . . . they’re saying we’ll be dead within the year anyway, now that You-Know-Who is back and rallying the werewolves.”

“Liam,” Darcy begins gently. “I understand that you’re frightened—”

“You could never understand,” he interrupts quietly, bitterly. “You could _never_ understand what it’s like for us. This bite—” Liam touches a place on his chest where Darcy knows the bite mark is. “—has taken _everything_ from me. It is a curse, the burden of never being able to have a normal life ever again. Please, I need the potions, as many as you can give me.”

“Liam, I need you to understand where I’m coming from,” Darcy continues, speaking softly, as if to a dying person. “The ingredients for these potions are very expensive, and some for Gemma’s need to be imported. If we just gave away months worth of potions at a time, you can see how that would hurt us. By not bringing in any revenue, we’ll have a hard time replenishing our supplies.”

Something of Liam’s old self flashes in his eyes just then. “Thank you for the Basic Economics 101 course. I generally understand how business works,” he hisses.

Sirius growls from the floor, making Liam jump.

Darcy nudges Sirius with her foot and he quiets. With another encouraging nod, this time from Gemma, Darcy continues politely. “Say we give you enough potion for a few months . . . you wouldn’t want more?”

Liam works his jaw for a moment, sniffing. “Tell them to leave.”

Darcy almost protests, but then closes her mouth. “Okay.” She smiles at Lupin, and then at Gemma. “Leave us, please. We won’t be long.”

Lupin and Gemma exchange a hesitant and suspicious look, but oblige Darcy’s request. Liam quickly notices that Sirius remains at Darcy’s feet, seemingly lacking any intention to follow his friends out the kitchen. “The dog, too,” Liam says with a shudder.

“The dog stays,” Darcy insists. She waits for the kitchen door to close and then considers Liam for a few minutes quietly, wondering if Gemma and Lupin have retrieved the Extendable Ear from her bedroom yet. Sirius exhales loudly, curling up on the floor and wagging his tail lazily. Finally, Darcy smile at Liam again. “I’d be more inclined to help you if you’re honest with me.”

Liam’s pale face floods with color. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. I wouldn’t ask if I had no other options.”

“You want money, is that it?”

He seems humiliated by the words, but nods. “Anything.”

“What will you give me in return?”

He hesitates, thinking quickly. “He said he was seeking recruits. He said you’d expect a friendship, an alliance. I’m going to be honest with you, Miss Potter—”

“—Darcy is fine.”

Liam nods again, eyes darting down to his lap. “ _Darcy_ . . .” He swallows. “I’m going to be honest with you, Darcy, we aren’t fighters. Most of us are sick, and nearly all of us are hungry. No offense, but I don’t think anyone’s really jumping at the chance to die for you or your brother.”

“I’m not asking for anyone to die for me or Harry, nor would I ever,” Darcy replies firmly. “But there are other things that you could do for the Order.”

“Like what?” Liam hisses.

“Can you brew potions well?”

“Dunno.”

“That’s not a good enough answer, Liam. Can you brew potions well?”

Looking exasperated and increasingly frustrated with Darcy, Liam sighs. “I guess I’m all right.”

“Good. Now, I want you to go back to your community and find three others who are capable of brewing potions and following directions—the last part is very important.” Darcy scratches absently behind Sirius’ ears as Liam listens with wide, confused eyes. “The four of you will work with Gemma and brew the potion, where you will be paid for your work in money and in potion, so long as you do your best to brew it properly.”

“I—I—” Liam fumbles for speech, his mouth opening and closing stupidly. “Thank you . . . thank you—”

“I want the rest of your community to decide who could most easily spy on other communities. Remus is too well-known to be skulking around them. If someone else recognized him as you did, then it could have gone very wrong. He knows where the others are located—a few of them, anyway—so we’ll chat later about that, once you’ve procured your volunteers. Tell them that they’ll need to report back to us with anything that seems of importance, and that, if they’re in immediate danger or their life is threatened directly, I want them to leave. I don’t want anyone dying.” Darcy leans back in her seat, her stomach fluttering with pride. “I will not ask any of you to fight at our side, but I do expect your loyalty, is that understood? I will be paying you out of my own pocket, supplying you with what you need, but if you decide to run with Greyback, it all stops, do you understand?”

Liam nods. “Yes, yes—I understand.”

“If you tell anyone where this place is or if you betray me, you will be Obliviated, and Gemma _will_ drop you in the middle of the ocean without a wand or tongue, understood?”

He looks at her for a long time, as if trying to determine whether or not this is a joke. “Okay.”

“If you tell anyone that you’ve seen me, you will be Obliviated. If you tell anyone that I’m helping you, you will be Obliviated.”

“I understand.”

“I am not as forgiving as Albus Dumbledore is, especially not towards those who lie or cheat me.”

Liam manages a small smile. “I don’t know much about Albus Dumbledore except what I read in the papers, so I’m not sure if that’s a threat or not.”

Darcy shrugs, chuckling. “So we have a deal? Work in exchange for your loyalty and friendship?”

Liam holds out his hand, getting slowly to his feet. Darcy mimics him, rising from her chair with Sirius climbing to all fours, able to see above the table. “Deal.”

“Welcome to the Order, Liam. I’m sorry there’s not a more . . . formal welcome and induction, but we make do.” Darcy shakes his hand, surprised at his firm grip. “Stay here for a few minutes. I’m going to get some food together for you to bring back.”

After Gemma and Liam speak privately for a few minutes (during which Sirius sits very still at the doors of the drawing room, likely eavesdropping with his heightened, dog-like senses), discussing the work that Liam and his companions would need to do, the pay (negotiated for quite a while, seeing as most of the money offered to them will come from Darcy’s own vault, considering Gemma’s limited supply if she’ll be making less money from her own product), and what to expect from the potions themselves, Liam leaves Grimmauld Place with some new clothes that no longer appeal to Sirius, a large bag full of fruit and canned foods, bottles of water, wine, bread, and dry and salted meat. Sirius promptly runs up the stairs to transform back into himself and dress, while Lupin, Darcy, and Gemma all share a nervous silence until they hear a loud crack coming from the other side of the door, signaling Liam’s disappearance.

“Twitchy little thing, isn’t he?” Gemma asks, breaking the silence as Sirius comes walking back down the stairs to join them. “Lycanthropy does not suit him.”

“Reminds me of me, when I left Hogwarts,” Lupin sighs, still watching the door as of expecting Liam to walk in again. He rests his hand upon Darcy’s left shoulder, squeezing tight. “To lose everything so quickly . . . I’m glad you were able to help him, Darcy. Thank you.”

“What did you expect?” Darcy asks, laughing softly to herself and looking up at him. “You didn’t think I was going to let him leave without reaching a deal or empty-handed, did you? Certainly not after all the work you did.”

When Lupin turns his head to look at her, Darcy notices his pupils seems larger than normal, and his hand squeezes her shoulder tighter. “You did this, Darcy,” he croaks, not taking his eyes off her. “Recruiting then as allies—that was your doing. I only convinced them that we’re not the bad guys.”

Gemma clears her throat, and everyone looks at her, Darcy rather reluctantly. “Well, I suppose I’ve got some work to do. I’ll be out a few hours, should be home before dinner.”

She bids them all a hasty good-bye, Sirius retreats to the kitchen to clean up, and Darcy makes her way for the stairs, hoping to lie down and read for a little while before Gemma gets back. Now that everything is over and the anxiety of having a near stranger inside headquarters without anyone else knowing about it has settled, Darcy can’t help but flow with pride. She hadn’t done it all—she couldn’t have done it without Lupin and Gemma’s agreeable natures and willingness to help, and she couldn’t have done it without Sirius’ home open to her, the courage he’d provided her by sitting at her feet—but she’d provided Liam with a deal he seemed more than happy with. She had made allies with a community of werewolves, something Liam may not have been interested in had she not written the article. To know that some good had come out of the article makes her heart race, makes her smile.

Not to mention, Liam had had some form of respect for her, as if she was someone important. He’d called her ‘Miss Potter’ like she was the Minister of Magic, like she was due a certain respect for just being her. Darcy can’t remember the last time she’d been treated that way, if ever. She wasn’t just a little girl to Liam, she was someone who slightly frightened him, who intimidated him, who held the cards he desperately wanted and needed. And Liam had asked everyone to leave, had wanted to speak to her in private because he’d _trusted_ her, and that makes Darcy feel over the moon.

She isn’t in her bedroom long before the door opens and closes and Lupin’s hands are on her shoulders, his chest pressing against her back. Darcy can almost feel the steady beating of his heart, and an involuntary sigh escapes her lips when he squeezes her shoulders tight.

Lupin places a soft kiss on the crook of her neck, pressing his hips against her backside. “I can’t recall ever hearing or seeing that side of you before, and I think I quite like it.”

Darcy smiles, closing her eyes. “It’s not like I negotiated world peace,” she purrs as he pushes her hair aside to administer sweet kisses to the nape of her neck, giving her goosebumps.

“Regardless, I’ve learned that hearing you tell someone that you’re not very forgiving has a rather pleasing effect on me,” he chuckles against her neck.

“Is that you saying I’ve turned you on in a less crude way?”

“Something like that.” Lupin presses himself harder against Darcy, sending a shiver down her spine.

“You should see me teach,” she teases, closing her eyes as his teeth graze her pulse. “If my diplomacy and negotiating skills turn you on, my teaching would have you on your knees.”

He laughs. “I’ve no doubt about that.”

“I liked it when you taught,” she breathes, her heart leaping in her throat with each kiss he gives her, “Professor Lupin.”

“I regret not doing more filthy things to you while you were wearing your uniform,” he growls. “If I’d known I’d be gone by the end of the year, I think I would have used our time more wisely. I would have certainly had you on my desk at least once, anyway.”

“I still have the uniform if you’d like me to put it on.”

Darcy can feel him smiling against her skin. When he next speaks, his voice is changed completely, no longer husky and low and full of want, but now breathy and soft. “Thank you, Darcy. For everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” she whispers, tilting her head back to rest it upon his shoulder, looking up into his face, his pupils still blown out. “I didn’t do anything for your gratitude. I did it because I love you, and I would do anything for you.”

Lupin wraps his left arm around her waist, his right hand moving to her face. He cups her cheek, brushing his thumb lightly over her lips. For a split second, Darcy thinks she’s going to hear him say the words she longs to hear so badly from him, but when he doesn’t say them right away, Darcy knows he will not say them at all. Instead, he kisses her deeply, his tongue chasing after hers, pushing her closer to the bed.

“Bend over,” he whispers in her ear, and she does as she’s told, her cheek and chest pressed against the cool sheet on her bed, his hand splayed across her lower back, rubbing the exposed skin just above the waistband of her pants. Lupin’s fingers trace the outline of her spine before reaching around to unbutton her jeans. “Be quiet now, love, unless you want someone to hear us . . .”

* * *

The rest of the evening, Darcy legs continue to shake from the fucking Lupin had given her, a tremor to match even Liam’s. Seated on the sofa in the drawing room, her legs draped over Lupin’s lap and underneath a blanket, both of them reading quietly to themselves, he smiles to himself every time his fingers touch the inside of her thigh, causing her legs to spasm uncontrollably. Each and every small touch makes her core tighten, makes her shudder.

“Are you all right?” he asks gently, reaching for her hand and bringing it to his lips.

“I’m fine,” she rasps, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Really.”

It had come as something of a shock (more so to Lupin than to Darcy) when, after pounding into her from behind for much longer than Darcy ever thought possible for him, forcing her into the mattress with each hard thrust, making her eyes nearly roll back into her head, Darcy had felt a dizzying feeling, closing her eyes only to be woken a few seconds later on her back with Lupin gently slapping her face.

“Don’t _do_ that,” he’d gasped, running a hand through his hair, looking like he’d seen a ghost. “Christ . . . I thought I’d killed you for a second.”

Breathing heavily, embarrassed and exhausted, Darcy had forced herself to smile and laugh, further bewildering him. “No better way to go, is there?”

He’d looked very conflicted then, seemingly not wanting to laugh at her joke, but he’d at least smiled very, very weakly at her, chuckling anxiously before placing featherlight kisses all over her flushed face.

Lupin smiles at her. “Tell me how it’s possible to be so adorable, and yet so frightening at the same time.”

“You think I’m adorable?” Darcy asks with a grin, shifting upon the sofa to rub the front of his trousers with her foot. Lupin inhales sharply, his tongue tracing his bottom teeth. “Something wrong?”

He swears under his breath, groaning in a way that makes Darcy bite down hard on her lip.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” comes Gemma’s too-innocent voice from the threshold. Darcy retracts her foot and Lupin adjusts the front of his pants, sitting up. He looks slightly disgruntled and annoyed, but when he sees the nervous look on Gemma’s face, he furrows his brow. Sirius is lingering just over her shoulder, nearly an entire head or so taller than her. “Listen, I think we need to talk. It’s important, or I wouldn’t bother you.”

Darcy and Lupin look at each other uneasily, but put their books down and sit up as Sirius flops into an armchair and Gemma sits on the floor at the long table in front of the sofa. She spreads out a few pages of parchment with numbers and names and all kinds of scribbles on it.

“What is this?” Darcy asks, smiling incredulously.

Gemma doesn’t look very amused. “Look, I did the math. I don’t know how you expect to pull this off.”

Darcy’s smile slowly fades. “What do you mean?”

“All right, so the first thing is . . . I’m not the only person responsible for this potion, so we’d likely have to buy the Healer out in order to start making these big decisions, such as the hiring of four werewolves.” Gemma frowns, twirling a strand of her dark hair around her index finger distractedly, her eyes scanning the parchment spread atop the table. “Not that I’m . . . prejudiced, of course, but hiring four werewolves to create a potion that is for them is a massive liability. And if those four werewolves are on the Registry—and Liam, at least, is—then we’d have to disclose it to the Magical Creatures Department, and if we don’t, the Ministry of Magic would be up my arse.” She rubs her temples furiously. “The idea sounds great, and it’s progressive and we’d be helping them, but we need to remember that they won’t be the only ones working production, and no offense, but are you not concerned that, with little supervision, they might attempt to smuggle some of the potion home with them?”

Darcy’s heart feels as heavy as a brick. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. I wanted to help, and I did so without thinking—again_. “If we give them what we promised, they’ll have no need to steal it.”

Gemma looks to Lupin as if hoping for some backup. “They’ll have every reason to steal it. Regardless, we can’t just assume Healer Bavaria will be open to the idea. He may have the same reservations about them stealing the finished product, or even just the ingredients once they learn how it’s created.”

“Can’t we buy him out?” Darcy asks quickly.

“Darcy,” Gemma begins, with the air of explaining something very simple to a child. “Do you have any experience at all managing a product? A business? Anything similar?”

“Well, no, but . . .” Darcy falters, blushing furiously. “I could learn.”

“In any case, you can’t really buy anything out or slap your name on something related to werewolves while you’re supposed to be in hiding.”

“Then you can buy him out, and I’ll reimburse you for it.”

Gemma purses her lips, sighing. “And what would you do if you had full ownership? Give the potion away for free for anyone who comes begging for it?” She steeples her fingers together, shrugging her shoulders. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I think you’re getting in over your head now.”

Darcy feels anger bubbling to the surface, but swallows it out of love for Gemma. “And why do you think that?”

Gemma considers Darcy for a moment, thinking hard. “I don’t think you understand what you’d be getting into. It’s a lot of money—”

“I have money,” Darcy counters. “And plenty of it. If I need to, I can take some out of what mum and dad left me.”

“I know you’re not wanting for gold, Darcy, but I can’t allow you to throw away your money and your parents’ money on this.”

“It’s _my_ money,” she retorts. “I can do with it what I’d like.”

“It’s sabotage,” Gemma argues, dropping all pretense. “I’m trying to sell a potion marketed specifically for werewolves during a time when there’s open prejudice. Do you see how that might affect the market? People aren’t exactly queuing up to buy it and reveal they’re werewolves. Not to mention, the people that helped fund our start-up will likely soon be asking for their money back. Here, look, I’ve brought the ledgers to show you.”

Gemma holds out a few pieces of parchment across the table for Darcy to take. Darcy looks from Gemma to Lupin to Sirius and back at the ledgers, finally making a grab for them. Lupin shifts closer to Darcy to read over her shoulder. The ledgers are sad; Darcy reads through the ingredients purchased, ingredients she’s all heard of before, slightly stunned at how much money is being put towards them. Also written on the ledgers are a small amount of sales, some in bulk and others single doses, as well as payment for the brewers already on the payroll. In truth, Darcy hadn’t realized how complicated the entire process is, for Gemma had never spoken logistics or details with her.

“I have enough money . . . I . . . I can do it, Gemma, just let me help—”

“Darcy, you told Liam yourself,” Gemma says, taking the ledgers back. “We aren’t running a charity. If we don’t have consumers—if we give this away for free or for nothing—then we won’t have the ingredients to make a product to sell. We can’t lower the prices any further, we have to make a profit—”

“A profit?” Darcy scoffs, outraged at these words. She doesn’t know why it’s these words in particular that break the dam holding back her anger, but they are. “These are _people_. These are human lives we’re talking about, and you’re treating them as nothing but another customer—”

“My potion doesn’t cure them,” Gemma snarls, the familiar flash in her eyes appearing that signals danger. “To not have my potion is not a death sentence, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m giving it away for free to Remus—”

“Did you see Liam when he came in?” Darcy asks, her voice growing shriller. “He was a completely different man from the one who’d been lying in St Mungo’s. We have to help him—others like him!”

“I’m doing everything I can.” Somehow, despite Gemma not shouting the words, her calm demeanor unsettles Darcy, but she refuses to back down. “But I told you several times now, I’m not running a charity.”

“So these people are just numbers to you?” Darcy snatches the ledgers, waving them in front of Gemma’s face. “The only ones that matter to you are the ones who can rub two Galleons together, is that it?”

In all of Darcy’s anger, she hadn’t realized until he squeezes her thigh that Lupin has been touching her. Gemma’s face blazes with anger now, her cheeks slightly pink. “For the record, Darcy, fucking a werewolf doesn’t make you an ally, nor does writing an article that you’ve failed to follow up on—”

Unable to think straight upon hearing these words, Darcy moves quickly before anyone realizes what’s going on. Instinctively, Darcy makes a grab for the wand in Lupin’s pocket; he tries to stop her, to take it back, but it’s too late. Gemma’s wand is in her hand, but she isn’t fast enough to block the hex that Darcy hurls at her. Sirius protests loudly, jumping to his feet, and Lupin wrestled his wand back from Darcy’s clenched fist as, with a sharp cry of pain, Gemma is forced backwards into the bookshelves, and several of them come crashing down onto her head. Sirius kneels at Gemma’s side, but she pushes him away from her. A stream of blood is dripping from her left nostril, her bottom lip cut and a bruise already forming on her forehead where the corner of a large book has hit her.

Lupin finally pries Darcy’s fingers from his wand, and his own fingers curl around her upper arm, as if expecting her to pounce at Gemma. She even expects Gemma to hex her back, but instead she sits up and sniffs aggressively, wiping the blood from her face with the back of her hand as she catches her breath.

“You’re just like Emily, aren’t you, Darcy?” Gemma says bitterly, still in that unsettling calm voice. “There’s a darkness in you, a meanness, that you hide behind a wall of self-righteousness.” She takes Sirius’ hand and allows him to help pull her back to her feet. Brushing off the front of her clothes, Gemma continues. “Every life is precious to you, is that it? Kreacher’s isn’t. My parents’ aren’t, are they? And you would have gladly watched Peter Pettigrew be murdered on the floor of the Shrieking Shack right in front of you, wouldn’t you?”

At the mention of Peter, Darcy watches Sirius tense, and feels Lupin tense beside her. “Don’t you dare talk about Peter Pettigrew in front of me—in front of us. Don’t you dare act like you understood what was going through my head that night. He deserved it.”

“Harry didn’t think so,” Gemma snaps, touching her split lip gently. Panting, she smooths her hair back and regains her dignified composure. “Someone hurts you and your first instinct is to hurt them back. You _want_ people to hurt. Case in point.” She gestures to her disheveled self. “At least I’ll admit that I’m not always a good person. Whenever you hurt someone, it’s because it’s righteous, because they deserved it, because you’re feeling _spiteful_.”

Darcy’s stomach churns, waiting for Gemma to confess to Lupin what Darcy had almost done with Snape, but the confession never comes. Darcy releases the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

“How dare you?” Gemma hisses, scrunches her nose. “How dare you take something good I’ve done and twist it around to make it seem like it’s not good _enough_? Things aren’t black and white, Darcy. It’s not a matter of good or bad. You, of all people, should know that by now.”

“If you’re unhappy with the way I see the world, then you can leave,” Darcy says, her throat burning as bile rises. “No one’s asking you to be here.”

Gemma scoffs and nods. “You know something?” she says, still breathing very heavily, gathering up all of her papers from the table and floor. “I have a lot of respect for you, Darcy. You’ve got a lot of problems that you’re dealing with. Fuck . . . everyone in this room has a lot of problems. But at least they’ll own up to it when they’re being a fucking tosser, and not fucking play the damn victim. You can be a real bitch, Darcy.”

“Gemma,” Lupin growls warningly. “Careful.”

“Oh, good,” Gemma spits at him. “I knew you’d side with her.”

Something in Darcy snaps. “Piss off, Gemma.”

“All right, hold on,” Sirius says loudly, grabbing Gemma’s arm as she makes to walk away. “No one’s leaving this fucking house.”

“If she wants to leave, then let her,” Darcy retorts, a bite to her tone. “Let her go back to her fancy Death Eater galas, marry a pretty Death Eater boy, spend time with her Death Eater family—”

Darcy knows she’s gone too far, and never before has she seen such anger in Gemma’s face, in her dark brown eyes. It is more than anger, it is hatred, a look that makes Darcy’s stomach turn violently and her heart jump into her throat. She doesn’t need Sirius barking at her to shut up to know that she’s done serious wrong, and as she stands up to level herself with Gemma, Gemma pulls her wand out and sends a hex directly at the wandless Darcy that hits her full in the face and sends her toppling backwards over the sofa.

Dizzy and disoriented, Darcy touches her throbbing face. Her nose feels broken and it’s spewing blood and her body aches painfully. Lupin is there within seconds, trying to help her up, but Darcy, crumpled on the ground like a rag doll with the wind knocked out of her, doesn’t even try to move.

“Sirius, put your wand away,” Lupin snaps, peering over the top of the sofa. “Gemma, you need to leave.”

“Don’t make me hex you, Gemma,” Sirius says from a place Darcy can’t see. He reminds her so much of her father in that instant that tears well up in her eyes—though Darcy thinks part of it could be the pain of her bruised face. “Go. Now.”

“Gladly.” Gemma sweeps around the sofa, kneeling beside Lupin to get a good look at Darcy’s face. Lupin holds a hand out warningly to Gemma, but Gemma ignores him completely, acting as if he’s just part of the room. Darcy looks up at her through swollen eyes, humiliated. “You _deserved_ that, didn’t you?”

Lupin grabs Gemma roughly by the arm then, pushing her away, and Gemma seems to take that as her cue to leave, not even bothering to pack her things in Darcy’s bedroom before slamming the front door behind her.


	60. Chapter 60

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a filler chapter full of angst and self-reflection to prepare you for the end that is nigh.

Lupin pulls his hand from Darcy’s nose quickly when she whimpers, tears spilling down her cheeks out of anger, frustration, pain, and humiliation.

“It’s definitely broken.” He slips his arms underneath her, and Darcy’s surprised at his strength when he lifts her bridal style with a soft grunt, bringing her to the sofa. Withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket, Lupin wipes the blood off her face and reaches for his wand. “Are you all right?”

“My face hurts,” she rasps, listening to the angry and loud footsteps overhead—Sirius pacing in his bedroom, his shoes striking the ground hard with every step. He’d left far too quickly, without a word to either Darcy or Lupin, furious about the entire scene he’d bore witness to. “Can you fix my nose?”

“I’m already on it, kitten.” Lupin points his wand at Darcy’s nose, and this time, she feels no fear. “ _Episkey_!” And within seconds, after a sharp pain and an extremely warm sensation tingling in her nose, the pain subsides, leaving only the ache in her face. He finishes wiping the dried blood from her upper lip, his thumbs pressing against the bridge of her nose to admire his handiwork.

Darcy’s eyes follow him, waiting for a reaction. He doesn’t seem upset in the slightest, a strange reaction, considering his lovely friendship with Gemma. It almost makes Darcy feel sorry for Gemma, leaving Grimmauld Place knowing that she’s leaving her two closest friends behind and the man she’d recently slept with, had opened up to in every possible way. Darcy touches his cheek, fingertips caressing his cheekbone until Lupin finishes cleaning her up.

He catches her wrist, turning his head to place a tender kiss on her palm. “You okay?”

She nods slowly. “Kiss me.”

Lupin hesitates, looking at her for a moment as if he hadn’t quite heard her correctly. And then, succumbing to her pleading look, he leans in and kisses her softly on the lips. As this simple contact, Darcy begins to cry in earnest, the tears burning her eyes and her face contorting painfully.

“I’ve ruined everything,” she whispers, her heart clenching in her chest. Everything feels so tight, constricted. Even her throat, which makes breathing harder as she cries. “I only wanted to help, and now Gemma is gone, Sirius hates me . . . I’ve ruined everything.”

Pursing his lips, Lupin exhales loudly through his long nose. “You shouldn’t have said those things to Gemma.”

“I didn’t hear you stopping me.”

At once, his cheeks turn pink and he looks away from her. “Gemma has sacrificed much to be here with you, and I don’t quite think you understand how much. She is risking everything to be a part of the Order, to be a part of your life, and to throw it back in her face like that was a great disservice to a friend who has been so good to you.”

Darcy wants to argue, but decides to keep her mouth shut in the end. She isn’t a naive little child, lacking understanding of how the world works. She knows very well what Gemma has put on the line to be here, at Grimmauld Place, and appreciates and respects that very much. And yet, Darcy can’t help but to feel that Gemma can hold that over her head in a _I’m risking my neck so let’s do what I say_ kind of way.

“We could have done it,” Darcy breathes, speaking more to herself than to Lupin. “I would have given all of my money to her to make it happen.”

“No one was asking for you to do that,” Lupin replies gently, smoothing back her hair with the backs of his fingers.

“That’s not why I wanted to do it.” Darcy props herself up against the arm of the sofa, blushing when she realizes Lupin’s eyes are examining all of the places on her face that hurt the most. “I’m not trying to . . . prove myself to you or to anyone. I just want to help.”

He kisses her again, pulling back with a look of complete adoration on his face that it nearly makes Darcy melt. “I know, and I deeply admire that about you.”

“What else do you admire about me?”

His look of adoration quickly turns to one of exasperation. “Your willingness to apologize.”

Darcy frowns. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

Lupin doesn’t answer her, his thumb smoothing her hair back from her forehead. After a few minutes, he sighs. “Will you be all right? I should go talk to Sirius.”

“Yeah, sure.” As he stands and turns his back to her, Darcy calls out rather impulsively, “I love you.”

He freezes in the threshold, not bothering to turn around and face her. “Don’t do this right now, Darcy.”

Lupin leaves the drawing room and she aches upon realizing he isn’t going to look back. That small gesture, or lack of one, makes Darcy feel that whatever there is between them suddenly shatters.

* * *

It’s hard not to feel slightly bitter at the Order’s reaction to Gemma’s abrupt departure from Grimmauld Place and her unwillingness to communicate with anyone.

They’ve called more meetings of late, just like they had done after Dumbledore had disappeared. Darcy, in all of her anger, never could have realized how much Gemma’s disappearance would affect things; all she’d wanted was to put as much distance between herself and Gemma as she could. After all, Gemma had left all her things in Darcy’s bedroom—of course she’d come back, of course she’d come back and act as though they’d never fought, and all would be forgiven. But Gemma hadn’t come back, and she’d sent Emily to collect her things from Darcy’s bedroom, and Darcy had watched on as the drawers and wardrobe were cleaned out as Tonks lingered in the threshold, popping gum and continually glancing inconspicuously into the corridor outside whenever the sound of footsteps sounded.

Emily hadn’t wanted to take sides, but did sternly remind Darcy that Gemma has always had a very difficult time coming to terms with her family’s status, and for some reason, it’s Emily that is able to make her feel guilty and sheepish about it. Tonks had even offered to fix her bruised face, but Darcy had told her to fuck off, and Tonks hadn’t said another word afterwards. Instead, Darcy had stewed in her anger after Emily had left with Gemma’s things, the bruises on her face serving a temporary reminder of that night.

Lupin had been the one to recount the evening’s events during the first meeting organized after the argument. He told everyone gathered around the table how he’d convinced Liam to come and meet with Darcy, recalls the conversation they’d all had in regards to getting him the potion, and then skips ahead to when Gemma had returned with her _ledgers_ and her fucking important _business documents_ , making her seem important and learned and _better_ than Darcy. Lupin was much less biased that Sirius would have been, Darcy’s sure, but there had been a few gasps and exasperated groans when Lupin told them word for word about the argument Darcy and Gemma had, including how they’d hexed each other and said things ‘they didn’t mean’. Maybe that’s what Lupin thinks, but Darcy had meant them, and she’s sure Gemma did, as well.

The Order had taken sides, as she had expected they would, and Darcy had heard it all through the Extendable Ear. Most of them she didn’t care about, Order members that have rarely spoken to her, who had come to adore Gemma’s abrasive manner and ability to make light of the worst situations. Mundungus had been one of the first to side very vocally with Darcy, but Mundungus’ opinion doesn’t matter much to Darcy at all, nor to anyone else in the Order.

However, Sirius, with his steadfast and unshakeable loyalty to his goddaughter, had thankfully taken Darcy’s side, but not after admitting to everyone that Darcy shouldn’t have said what she’d said. This hadn’t surprised her in the slightest—she knows even now that her words about Gemma’s Death Eater family had struck a touchy and familiar chord with Sirius. She isn’t sure if it had just been for show, siding with Darcy, because Sirius certainly keeps to avoiding her of late. She feels sad for him, certainly, for Darcy had just pried something else away from him that he loved with no way to go after it.

Though he’d gone a little off the rails, turning angry during his defense of Darcy and somehow making it out to be all Snape’s fault for causing a mental break in her, and Sirius likely would have gone on for hours had McGonagall not intervened and called his behavior childish (something that had made Darcy privately very pleased). She had scolded the both of them, reminding them of their promise to Dumbledore to be civil to each other.

Emily had taken Darcy’s side, as well, and Darcy had made a silent and solemn promise to herself to never doubt Emily’s loyalty to her ever again. She had claimed that Gemma never should have taken Darcy seriously, should have never tried to prevent her from doing what she wanted with her personal money, and also argued that both Darcy and Gemma are working through a lot of problems and some space might be good for them, considering all the time they’ve spent together lately. Tonks had taken a more practical approach, bringing up the point that Darcy has now driven away someone so important to the Order, someone who was able to collect throwaway information and bring it back to them, someone who was so vital to helping Liam and the community of werewolves.

Lupin is the worst. He hadn’t taken a side in the first meeting, and still hasn’t. He’d stood off sheepishly to the side as Sirius had assaulted Darcy with a barrage of curse words and incomplete, half-formed thoughts the day after the initial argument. Besides that, they haven’t spoken of it—not that Darcy’s given him the opportunity to speak with her about it at all. She’s kept herself well out of the way most of the time, locking herself in her bedroom to read or paint her nails or listen to the walkman Emily had brought her (this is her favorite thing to do, for with the headphones covering her ears and the music blasting, no one can be mad at her for ignoring them when they knock at her door or call her name). And as much as she hates sleeping alone and as much as she craves a warm body beside her at night, Darcy doesn’t bother sneaking into Lupin’s room anymore at night. It’s not only her foul mood that keeps her from him, either—it’s the fact that Tonks takes it upon herself to cling to his arm whenever she visits the house, or brushes dirt off his shoulders, or compliments his hair by pushing it out of his eyes.

No one had confronted her right away, of course. That had been Sirius’ doing: “Let her cool off, give her time,” he’d said, and they’d listened and respected his wishes. Though if Darcy is being honest, she wishes—out of everyone—that Dumbledore were here, if only to give her counsel. His presence, though sometimes infuriating and vague, had been somewhat of a comfort, something solid to lean against and depend on. Dumbledore had always been able to offer her wise words, had always been able to make her feel sorry and guilty for saying things she shouldn’t have, and yet he’d never actually been mean about things. He’d always understood where she was coming from, had always understood why she would say the things she did. But Dumbledore isn’t here, and Darcy isn’t sure when he even plans on returning.

Tonight’s meeting is different, though. For one, Darcy doesn’t bother listening in on it, and second, someone comes knocking at her door afterwards. She assumes it’s only Lupin, coming to call her for dinner, as he has the past few nights (not that Darcy had actually gone down to eat with most of the Order, as some of the half-finished remnants of dinner are still stacked around her bedroom).

Not looking up from her book, she shouts, “I’m not hungry!”

“I don’t come bearing food,” comes Snape’s voice. “Open the door.”

Darcy fumbles for her wand, tangled in the sheets of her bed, and waves it. The lock clicks open and the door is pushed open by Snape. There’s a small box in his hand, and he closes the door behind him with his foot. When he looks directly at her face, he stumbles backwards, his dark eyes open wide with shock.

“ _Merlin’s_ —Darcy—”

“That bad, is it?” Darcy asks, blushing furiously and looking back down at her book.

“Has no one even attempted to fix your face?” Snape demands. Darcy sighs and looks back at him, almost laughing when she sees the scowl upon his face.

“They have, I just didn’t want to talk to anyone.” She pulls up her feet, hugging her knees to her chest, and Snape takes that as his cue to sit.

His eyes flick to the book in her hand. “Vampires?” he remark, cocking an eyebrow and looking only slightly bored, which Darcy thinks is a big step up from his usual apathy. “All the books in the world and you choose a vampire book?”

“Not just any vampire,” Darcy says with a smile, putting her book aside as Snape opens his kit to reveal a few different salves inside. He pulls out a mint green one that Darcy knows will fix the bruises, and she sighs in relief. “Dracula. Have you read it?”

“No.”

“It’s quite good. I’m only just halfway through now.”

Snape hums in response, opening the jar and dipping his fingers into it. Darcy flinches at first as he raises his hand to touch her face, suddenly remembering forcibly how close she’d come to kissing him. He isn’t as close to her now as he was before, and he doesn’t seem abashed in the slightest as he begins to smear the salve all over her face. He brushes it underneath both of her eyes and on the bridge of her nose, giving it a second layer once he scoops more of it up.

“I suppose you’ve taken Gemma’s side of things, then?” Darcy asks, quite boldly. Snape picks up a rag and wipes his fingers off, pursing his thin lips.

“What Smythe was trying to keep you from doing was an . . . incredibly stupid idea,” Snape tells her. “You know that, don’t you?”

The salve makes her face feel very warm. It’s a tingling feeling, as if she’s sunburnt. “I don’t think it was stupid.”

“Regardless of what you think,” he continues, “I can’t say I’m very surprised.”

Darcy blinks in surprise. “Are you mocking me?”

Snape considers her for a moment. “No.” His fingertips ghost over the paste on her face, which has turned pleasantly cool. “Only stating a fact. I have known you for a long time, Darcy, and I know you far better than you may think. I know that keeping your mouth shut during times when it is most imperative is very difficult for you, and yet you’ve done well to keep a level head, despite the challenges presented you this year.” He wipes the salve off with a rag, taking extreme care near her eyes, his touch becoming more gentle so as not to hurt her. “I’m only saying . . . I cannot pretend I did not see something like this coming.”

Darcy allows him to gently manhandle her face, opening another small vial of paste to administer to the small cut across the bridge of her nose where the bruise has now healed. “I was angry,” she says, feeling the need to defend her actions and words, despite knowing what she’d done was wrong. Pride swells in her, and to admit she was wrong to Snape would only embarrass her further. “She shouldn’t have tried to stop me from doing what I wanted to do. I’m not a child—”

“But you _are_ a child,” Snape interrupts, sounding so much like his old self that it shocks her. Darcy frowns. As if realizing the words have come out leaner than anticipated, Snape sighs in frustration and takes hold of her upper arms, squeezing hard. “You could not possibly have a complete understanding of the state of our world like your friends, or the history of our world, especially after being raised by Muggles. You are twenty-years-old, ignorant in the realms of war, of diplomacy, of business, of prejudice, of politics, of love.”

“Professor Snape,” Darcy whispers, feeling both ashamed of herself and very small in front of him. “You’re being very rude.”

“No, I’m telling you the truth, something you need to hear from someone.” Snape lowers his hands from her arm, reaching up to her face with a rag again to wipe the salve off her nose. “Do you know why it was so important for Professor Dumbledore to keep you at Hogwarts? Do you know why he wished so much to keep you from Order meetings? From living your own life, as far from me as you wish?”

“Because I’m reckless and impulsive,” Darcy replies, thinking back to that conversation she’d had with Dumbledore all those months ago. “Because I’m a flight risk.”

Snape doesn’t look as though he’d expected her to actually answer. He nods slowly, narrowing his eyes. “Partially, I suppose . . . he had shared concerns about you going off on your own, but . . .” He sighs heavily. “Darcy, do you truly believe that you have such control over your emotions that you could survive on your own?”

Darcy falters. “I have control over my emotions.”

“No, you don’t,” he counters. “You are one of the most emotional people I have ever met and, believe me, it tries my patience at times. You are naive . . . not that the Headmaster hadn’t expected it, growing up in a home where love was scarce. You trust too easily, and you and blinded by love at times.”

Darcy bristles at his words, anger rising in her again. “Is this you supposed to be telling me how undeserving Remus is of my love?”

“I’m saying that you’d be a prime target for someone looking to find your brother if you were to go off on your own.” Snape’s face hardens. “It would be too easy to manipulate you . . . too easy to take you.”

“Take me? That’s what you’re concerned about?” Darcy stands up suddenly, breathing heavily. “So I’ve been confined to a cell in order to keep me out of another one? At what point am I able to decide that my life is mine and mine alone?”

“Forgive me . . . are you implying that Grimmauld Place is a cell, or Hogwarts?” Snape asks, cocking an eyebrow. He slowly rises from the bed. “I have done everything in my power to make it not so. I have allowed you much freedom in my classroom, I think—license that would not be granted just anyone. You are not my prisoner, Darcy, and I would never think of you as such, nor is it my wish for you to become so. But if you have complaints about the way I’ve been treating you, please—” He sneers, a very familiar expression. “Say so now, before I change my mind.”

Truthfully, Darcy can’t think of anything to complain about. After all, it was Dumbledore’s wish for her to return, and Snape had only done what Dumbledore wanted. It was not Snape who’d insisted she be there, but it had been Snape who had made her feel comfortable there. He had allowed her to teach first years, to brew potions for classes. “If this is about the other night—” she begins, and Snape’s black eyes flash dangerously.

“—when you meant to use me to hurt Lupin?” he snarls in her face. “Don’t think I don’t know what you intended to do.”

“I wasn’t using you,” Darcy says softly, feeling a wave of guilt wash over her. “I had a good time that night. I enjoy your company. If I didn’t, I would have sent you away from my room like I’ve done with everyone else.”

“I don’t want to talk about that night.”

“You can’t just ignore things you don’t want to talk about.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “What was so awful about that night that you can’t talk about it? Does admitting that you care about me bring you such shame?”

Snape flushes, looking quickly away from her. “No, of course not—”

“Of course not.” Darcy laughs bitterly. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

Growing redder all the while, Snape doesn’t seem ready to back down. “And how would you prefer I show you? Last I checked, it isn’t my job to remind you that you’re loved.”

“All I’m asking is that you’re honest with me,” Darcy protests. “I don’t want you to look so disgusted and uncomfortable when a part of your real feelings for me slip out accidentally or in a fit of anger.” She gives him a sharp push to the chest and he grunts, but hardly stumbles.

“As revolting as your open declarations of love as affection for everyone are, don’t believe that everyone is so ready—”

“I’m not expecting you to openly declare your affection for me,” Darcy says with a great sigh. She doesn’t want to lose her temper now. “I would just appreciate it if, every once in a while, you reminded me that I’m not a burden to you without me having to ask or have to wonder. I just want you to be _nice_.”

“You’re not a burden to me,” Snape says firmly. “Is that what you want?”

“I don’t want you to say it because I asked you to!”

Snape rubs his temples, looking quite done with the conversation. “Are all women as impossible to appease as you are?”

“Yes, so get used to it.”

And within the course of about three seconds, before Darcy can think of what to say next, Snape’s cold hands are on her cheeks, her chest hits his hard, and he kisses her—not a little peck or an awkward close-mouthed kiss, but open-mouthed and tender, his fingers threading through her hair to clasp a hand upon the nape of her neck. Darcy puts her hands hard on his chest, pushing him away from her to break the kiss, panting as Snape takes a few hasty steps backward, looking as if prepared for her to hit him.

“Was that for me, or for my mother?” she breathes, wiping her bottom lip with her thumb.

There’s a knock on the bedroom door, and Lupin doesn’t wait for an answer to open it, appearing in the threshold and looking very suspiciously from Darcy to Snape. She can’t meet Lupin’s eyes now, looking instead into Snape’s face, which is slightly pink. Snape looks back at her, his chest heaving. Her heart is racing, throbbing painfully in her chest, her stomach churning.

“Dinner’s ready, Darcy,” Lupin says, walking over to her to drape a protective arm around her shoulders, holding her to him. “Severus. Thank you for fixing her face. Could you excuse us for a moment?”

Snape’s tongue darts out to lick his lips. Without a word to either of them, he packs his things and turns his back on them. Lupin doesn’t even wait until Snape is gone from the room before tangling a hand in the back of her hair and kissing her hard, a sloppy and passionate kiss that steals the breath from her completely. As his lips move to leave kisses down her neck, a hand snaking up the front of her shirt to brush his fingers over the smooth skin of her stomach, Darcy looks over his shoulder to find Snape just crossing the threshold, glancing over his own shoulder to meet Darcy’s eyes before disappearing from view.

* * *

Darcy marks another day off on the calendar by her bed.

Harry’s exams should be starting today if she remembers her own O.W.L. schedule well enough. She wishes she could talk him through the stress of exams, wishes she could give him some last minute pointers—for his Potions exam, at least. She wishes she could just talk to him, to see how he’s doing, to make sure Umbridge isn’t mistreating him, to make sure that he hasn’t been killing himself with his studies. Yet, as much as she wants to be at Hogwarts with him, the knowledge that O.W.L.’s have started lifts her spirits greatly, in a way that nothing or no one else could. For the beginning of O.W.L.’s means that summer is coming, and soon, Harry (and hopefully Hermione and Ron for a time) will be coming back to number twelve, Grimmauld Place for the summer.

And, as the school year comes to a close, the fate of Umbridge will be decided—whether or not she will break the dreaded curse put on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job. Darcy privately hopes that she’ll meet some grisly end for the way she had treated Darcy and Harry and for the nasty things she’d said about Lupin and werewolves. The end of Umbridge could possibly mean Darcy can resume her position with Snape next fall, could possibly mean Dumbledore’s return. But these things seem improbable, so Darcy contents herself with picturing Harry back at home, being a real family with she and Sirius.

But it’s hard to think such happy thoughts when her mind continues to fall back on the memory of Snape kissing her, _actually_ kissing her this time. Not that she’d particularly enjoyed it—Darcy hadn’t wanted to kiss him then, doesn’t think she’d hinted towards it. Sure, she’d almost kissed him herself weeks ago when she’d been nearly two bottles of wine deep, drunker than she’d been for some time. And even then, Snape had recognized she hadn’t actually wanted it . . .

Darcy hopes it changes nothing between them, but knowing Snape and his willingness to bury anything uncomfortable or shameful and never talk of it again, she suspects Snape will never again bring it up and will never again try to kiss her. But maybe it’s a good thing—maybe now that they’ve done it, the tension will fade away, and there will be no curiosity stuck between them as to what could have been or what could be. Darcy is positive, especially after the kiss, that she doesn't want anything romantic with Snape, that she’d much more enjoyed Lupin kissing her than Snape. There’d been no butterflies with Snape, no drunk in love feeling, no feeling of wanting to scream it to the world, no desire to repeat the experience.

Despite the Order meetings beginning to slow, Emily finds time in her busy schedule to come visit with Darcy. Darcy doesn’t mind these visits—in fact, she’s quite fond of the time spent with Emily, drinking brandy or firewhisky and smoking cigarettes—but she does mind the fact that Tonks takes to hanging around with them. Darcy tries very hard to like her, truly she does, by including her in gossip and offering her drinks, and Tonks is never cruel or rude to her, but Darcy can’t bring herself to call Tonks a friend.

For one thing, Tonks takes it upon herself to spend too much time with Lupin. Not too much time in general, she supposes, but too much time for her own liking. Whenever she watches Tonks wander off with a flick of her purple, pink, blonde, turquoise, black, red, orange hair towards Lupin, jealousy bubbles in the pit of Darcy’s stomach. Everytime Darcy looks at Tonks—looks at that beautiful heart-shaped face, those wide and innocent looking eyes, those real woman’s tits, curvy hips for Lupin to dig his fingers into as she fucks him with experience Darcy lacks herself—all Darcy can feel is a complete sense of inadequacy. And while she feels her jealousy is misplaced, especially considering her secret kiss with Snape (not that she’d initiated or met his lips with any kind of fervor), Darcy still wants nothing more than to lock Lupin away where no woman will ever be able to even look at him. But she knows this is ridiculous and selfish, and so Darcy forces herself to stay quiet as Tonks flirts openly with him, despite her advances being politely rejected more often than not. Every so often, Darcy notices Lupin’s cheeks turn pink after Tonks whispers in his ear, or he’ll clear his throat and leave the room when Tonks sits too close to him or brushes off his clothing or links her arm with his.

It’s not as if Lupin’s oblivious to what’s happening. Darcy sometimes suspects Tonks is far more open with him while they’re alone on guard duty. There seems to be a history between them, a newfound familiarity that Darcy feels very separate from, that makes Darcy feel an outsider, that makes her feel sad. She looks in the mirror now and doesn’t feel half as beautiful, scrubs at her scarred shoulder hard in the bathtub as if hoping to scrub her skin perfect again. She hates herself for being so affected by a man—something she’d never admit to Emily—but without Harry here and without Gemma as her best friend (are they even still friends at all?), Darcy sometimes feels as if Sirius and Lupin are all that’s left to her in this miserable house, and losing Lupin to Tonks would be downright heartbreaking. Another person to leave her. Another person gone, lost, just like Gemma, just like Gavin, just like Ludo Bagman, just like Lily and James.

Lupin does his best to reassure her, but Darcy isn’t quite sure they’re even together at all. He kisses her when he wants, usually at night when they settle down in bed (when Darcy decides she needs company for the night) and begin tearing at each other’s clothes, desperate for affection and the feel of naked skin beneath their hands, forgetting their misery and loneliness as he slips inside of her. Words mean nothing to her, his smiles mean nothing and only set her heart to fluttering. The only thing that reassures her is after he’s done fucking her, when his arms wrap around her in their own familiar way, as if they know the routine by heart, as if they’ve done this a thousand times—which they have. When he pulls her to him, his chest pressed firm against her back, the steady beating of his heart beating hard against her skin. Darcy thinks that, if ever a day comes where Lupin does not hold her to him as if letting go means losing her, then he will be lost to her forever. So she cherishes these moments, nuzzled against his chest, legs twined together, fingers lightly caressing bare skin, tracing patterns and fingering scars.

“Heard from Gemma lately?” Darcy asks one day over a game of cards with Emily—Muggle cards procured from Fred and George’s joke shop.

“Yeah, she arranged a Portkey journey just recently to Italy,” Emily answers, scrunching he nose as she examines her hand of cards. “She said she’d written Carla. I think they’re going to meet there.”

Darcy slams her cards onto the table, making Emily start. “Are you taking the piss?”

Emily raises her eyebrows. “Why would I be?”

Unsure why this information gets her so worked up, Darcy simply answers, “Dunno.”

The first weekend after the start of O.W.L.’s, Sirius requests a word with Darcy while she plays with Max, speaking so formally to her, just like he used to when they’d still been wary of each other and unfamiliar with the relationship between them. He insists they talk downstairs, Darcy insists they stay in her bedroom. Sirius insists Max leave the room to eliminate distractions, Darcy insists he’s being ridiculous. Sirius finally concedes, admitting himself that he doesn’t see a reason why Max shouldn’t be with them.

He seats himself awkwardly at the foot of Darcy’s bed, in a way much like Mr. Duncan would enter Emily’s bedroom when he had something important to discuss with them. Darcy pulls her knees to her chest, waiting for Sirius to speak first. He doesn’t speak for a long time, only looks at her with the saddest, beaten puppy dog look she’s ever seen. It makes her heart ache for him, and this lone expression makes Darcy feel guiltier than she’s ever felt. She wishes Gemma were here now so she could apologize and the world would be better, and Grimmauld Place would be better, and it would be the four of them again—a family.

Darcy half-expects Sirius to chastise her again, to berate her for the things she’d said to Gemma. And still, when Sirius doesn’t speak, the guilt bubble inside of her bursts, his silence so oppressing and so accusing that she can’t keep quiet any longer.

“Sirius, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.” Maybe it’s the relief of finally apologizing to someone in earnest, of really meaning it, that makes the tears come so quickly and so naturally.

“C’mere, kid.” Sirius’ voice is so gentle and so soft that Darcy can hardly believe that voice is coming from him, lacking any trace of bitterness or anger. Instead, he allows Darcy to fall into his chest with his arms around her, his cheek pressed to the top of her head, smoothing back her red hair and letting her cry. It only makes her cry harder when she remembers watching her five-year-old self clinging to Sirius, he clinging to her, not wanting to let her go, to give her up. When she feels Sirius’ wet cheek against her forehead, she wonders if he’s remembering that, too.

“I wish none of this had ever happened to us,” Darcy cries, closing her eyes tight as if trying to block the entire world out.

Sirius nods against her face, his unshaven cheek rough against her skin. “Me too.”

The mutual understanding between them makes everything easier. They don’t have to explain their tears, their sadness and longing at lives far different than the ones they’re living. Darcy suddenly feels that she’s missed out on several golden opportunities to speak with Sirius about his childhood—missed the opportunity to ask him the question she needs the answer to more than she thinks— _How did you survive_? Besides Harry, Darcy’s never known another person on such a level to have been brought up so like her in a way, brought up in a loveless household where you’re unwanted, an outcast. How is it that, during all of her visits and during all the days and nights that it was just she and Sirius at the house, she hadn’t once thought to connect with him in such a way? The trauma, the nightmares, the memories they wish could be Obliviated from their heads—there’s so much potential for salvation in him if he could stop being bitter for just a few minutes while she spoke of it all.

And yet, perhaps the thing holding her back are the years they’d been separated. The years that Sirius had thought of her while wasting away in Azkaban for nothing, while Darcy hadn’t thought of him or even remembered him, or loved him. The giant _what if?_ between them, all the things that could have been, that should have been—years full of love and laughter and bliss. The thought is enough to make her cry, enough to make her anger begin to surface again. Anger at Dumbledore, at Hagrid, at Peter fucking Pettigrew, the man who’d taken everything from her, this man who was so beloved by his friends, who likely thought nothing of Darcy when he betrayed her parents.

There is still too much hurt there, too much pain. The wound is still fresh nearly fifteen years later to discuss it, but Darcy makes a promise to herself: when the hurt has lessened and when his healing has begun, she will ask him. One day when the wound isn’t still gushing, she will ask her godfather how to heal, how to move on, how to stop letting her loveless childhood affect every little thing she does. One day she will, but not today.

“I love you,” she whispers, and while Sirius doesn’t say it back, he hugs her tighter, and that’s just as good as hearing him say the words.

Later that night, another Order meeting takes place. Darcy doesn’t bother listening it—this meeting is only to establish guard duty, which oftentimes can run on for much longer than Darcy could have ever expected. Fiddling with Sirius’ wireless, turning the dial with the utmost gentility, Darcy hears the meeting disband below close to nine o’clock. There’s the shuffling of people making their way to the front door, footsteps coming up and down the stairs to use the bathroom, and Darcy hears Sirius’ door open and close and open again and his heavy footsteps going up another floor, probably to feed Buckbeak.

There’s a soft knock on her door, which Darcy ignores boldly. However, after a few seconds, the knock sounds again and it’s Professor McGonagall’s voice that sounds from the other side, which is peculiar in itself considering she doesn’t usually attend scheduling meetings.

“Message from your brother, Potter.”

Darcy nearly falls out of bed at these words, scrambling to the door and flinging it wide open. McGonagall is holding out a small strip of parchment that Darcy swipes from between her fingers. She unrolls it at once, as McGonagall murmurs something about waiting downstairs for her reply.

_There’s so much to tell you. I can’t wait to be home again. I’ve big news. Really big. Enormous, even. I’ll be glad when O.W.L.’s are over. Miss you, especially in Potions._

Darcy’s heart skips a beat, curious about this big news. She wonders if it’s anything McGonagall would know about, but decides not to ask, in case she doesn’t know what Harry is referencing. The last thing Darcy wants is to give McGonagall reason to be suspicious about anything. But what could it be? An elaborate, badly timed joke of Fred and George’s that has just now created more chaos? Has Harry had a dream or a vision? Is it something to do with Voldemort, with the weapon? Or something more innocent, like a new girlfriend or a botched O.W.L. exam?

She scribbles her response quickly, frustrated that they aren’t quite able to say more to each other. While writing, she has to remind herself that it won’t be long now until Harry is here with her, and they’ll be able to stay up however late they want and talk about everything they’ve missed, catching up like old friends.

_Can’t wait to hear your big news. Please write back quickly telling me it’s okay to calm down. You know me—you can’t be so vague while I’m unable to talk to you. Good luck with your exams. I love and miss you. Be good._

McGonagall gives Darcy’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze before taking off with Darcy’s note tucked in her cloak pocket. She retreats back to her bedroom before she’s able to run into anyone else.

After a little while, once the footsteps die down and Sirius returns downstairs and Darcy gives up with the wireless, she lights a cigarette and sighs, leaning back on her pillow, staring at the ceiling. Her room is lonely tonight, especially with Max out hunting. Even the soft sound of rustling wings would be a comfort, but everything is too still, too confining, too quiet. She wishes Gemma were here to lighten the mood, to share Darcy’s bed. Maybe she’d even give Gemma a kiss, just to express her gratitude towards her for being such a good friend.

Looking at the empty space beside her, where it would be so sweet to see a warm body, Darcy puts her cigarette out in the overflowing glass ashtray on the nightstand. She slips out of bed again, this time slightly more gracefully, and begins to undress, meaning to ready for bed. Her movements feel mechanical as she pushes her pants down, lifts her shirt above her head. When Darcy catches sight of her shoulder in the mirror, she pauses with her sleeping shorts halfway up her long legs, bent double, her long hair hiding much of her face.

She hates to look at them now. She’s never hated them before—it has always been more of an indifference, but certainly not hate. They aren’t particularly pleasant to look at, in fact, they’re very violent and painful looking, and sometimes Darcy still swears they twinge sometimes, but Gemma had told her months ago that it was likely just a phantom pain, all in her head, and Darcy hadn’t any reason not to believe it. But to know that Lupin looks on them now with such obvious disdain and disgust makes Darcy feel ugly and tainted, imperfect when all she wants to be for him is perfect.

Darcy stands up straight in the mirror, pulling on one of Lupin’s old shirts and buttoning the front. The sleeves are too long for her, and the forest green color of it has long since faded into a less pleasing shade, but it’s warm and fits nicely and doesn’t make her look too skinny, which is nice considering she’s lost a significant amount of weight lately by skipping out on meals out of pure spite.

On a whim, Darcy decides to leave her bedroom behind, much preferring the warm and comforting atmosphere of Lupin’s bedroom. The corridor is cold and she wraps her arms around herself, making her way to the opposite end of the hall. Halfway down, however, the door opens and voices fill Darcy’s head.

“. . . don’t call me that, it’s awful.”

“Good- _night_ ,” Lupin says pointedly.

Darcy sees the flash of pink first; Tonks walks slowly out of his bedroom, a small smile on her face, and Lupin follows. He leans against the threshold with his arms folded over his chest, not looking half as pleased as Tonks, prepared to watch her go when he sees Darcy. Flattening herself against the wall to allow Tonks to pass, Darcy ignores her cheerful greeting, knowing it’s petty and childish to do so.

“What are you doing, kitten?” Lupin asks Darcy as Tonks heads down the stairs two at a time, sounding more curious than anything.

Her throat feels constricted. Darcy knows she shouldn’t feel so jealous, and she can’t quite explain _why_ she’s so jealous. She supposes her intense feeling can be blamed on months of being cooped up in the house, weeks of being trapped in her own head. Still tense against the wall, her eyes fixed upon the top of the staircase where Tonks’ pink hair had just disappeared, Darcy wants to cry. “I see,” she croaks.

“You see what?” Lupin presses, stepping down the corridor towards her, looking confused. “Darcy, love, don’t be foolish. We were only talking.”

“Right.” She hates herself for how violently her stomach rolls. “I’ll just be . . . going to bed now.”

“Hold on,” he says firmly, moving towards her with purpose and grabbing her upper arm. His grip is rough and his fingers hold her tight. With a gruff voice, he continues. “Darcy, what are you doing?”

“She fancies you,” Darcy whispers, tearing her arm from his grip. Why is it that the words are so painful to even say? Why does bile burn her throat and why do tears well up in her eyes? Why does it feel like everything is hitting her at once, about to burst from her like a broken dam? “What did she say to you? When she brought you in the drawing room that day? What did she say?”

Lupin falters. “I—” He considers her for a moment. “What does it matter?”

She remembers how upset he’d looked afterward, how he’d crawled into bed with her and fell asleep against her that night. All of a sudden the corridor seems very narrow, the house slowly caving in on her. All she wants is to get out of this house, to breathe fresh air. “Did you kiss her?”

He flushes, and that’s all the answer Darcy needs. Rubbing the back of his neck embarrassedly, he murmurs, “ _She_ kissed _me_. I didn’t—I wasn’t—I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” Darcy hears herself say, but it’s not what she wanted to say at all. It’s not fine, and all of Darcy’s self-loathing comes out in full force, the words spill from her mouth before she can compose herself—“Snape kissed me.”

Lupin’s blush fades and his jaw clenches tight. He looks at her as if expecting her to laugh, to say she’s only kidding. “When?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“The day he fixed my face.”

“And?” He looks positively furious, the shadow of a wolf appearing on his face, disappearing a moment later. She isn’t quite sure she’s seen it at all. “ _And_?”

“And what?” Darcy’s heart is leaping in her throat now, feeling ready to vomit. “I didn’t kiss him back, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well, I didn’t kiss Tonks back. It was hardly even a kiss.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Darcy snaps, blushing fiercely.

“Why didn’t _you_ tell me?”

“You’ve hardly spoken to me,” Darcy hisses. “Always busy with your Order missions with Tonks, coming home to fuck me and go to sleep, gone when I wake up. When were you going to give me time to tell you?”

“Look, it’s not like I can just take a vacation from the Order,” Lupin snarls, taking a step back and bumping his shoulder against the wall. “If you’re unhappy with me fighting for a cause I believe in, I’m sorry, but that’s no fault of mine.”

“I’m not unhappy that you’re fighting. Anxious, maybe, but not unhappy,” Darcy retorts, hating her body for producing those painful tears in her eyes. “I’m unhappy because I feel you’re using these missions to get away from me.”

Lupin scoffs, but she doesn’t give him time to answer.

“Last year this time, you asked me to marry you,” Darcy continues, too embarrassed to turn and run away now that she’s started. “You begged me to stay with you, to be with you, and now it’s like living with me is too much for—”

“You asked Darcy to marry you?”

Both Darcy and Lupin turn towards the sound of the voice, both turning bright red at the sight of Sirius standing at the top of the stairs, looking as if he’s been struck. Darcy looks hopefully towards Lupin, hoping he’ll explain the situation, but he looks pained, fumbling with his   
speech.

“Kept that part quiet, didn’t you?” Sirius says again, laughing bitterly. He gives a massive shrug, a mocking smile on his face. “Remus . . . Moony . . . you asked my teenage goddaughter to marry you?”

Sirius’ tone is near not cruel enough as Darcy expected it to be, and it seems to throw Lupin off guard, too. “Sirius. _Padfoot_ , it was complicated,” he finally says after a long and heavy silence. “I . . .” He glances quickly at Darcy, but looks away almost at once, as if too ashamed to meet her gaze. “I thought . . . at the time . . . it was what she wanted.”

It’s quiet for another moment, and Sirius’ lack of brutal anger or shock makes Darcy very uneasy. His smile has even softened somewhat, but it looks slightly uncomfortable. And then, he gives his head a small shake, sending his dark hair flicking from side to side, and Sirius raises his eyebrows at Darcy. “Emily wanted me to tell you that she’s staying over tomorrow.”

“Oh. Great.” Darcy smiles. “Thank you.”

Warily, overly cautious, as if intruding on something very intimate and shameful, Sirius tip-toes down the corridor towards his bedroom. Darcy doesn’t know why she watches him go, thinking it best to perhaps leave Lupin alone, to leave him to his thoughts. After all, she’s sure that her consistent and very persistent jealousy is probably not a very appealing trait to him. She finally finds the courage to leave him when Sirius’ door opens and closes, but Lupin catches her arm again, spinning her around with unprecedented strength to face him, fingers never releasing her.

Instead of speaking, of continuing their argument where they’d left off before Sirius interrupted them, Lupin looks at her as if looking at her clearly for the very first time. There’s a worried look about him, panic even, as he looks her up and down, his eyes boring in her green ones for longer than necessary, his free hand touching her dark red hair with a certain reluctance.

“Forgive me,” he whispers, his long fingers releasing her arm. Lupin takes a step backwards, unable to tear his eyes away from her, his tone too professional, too business-like—too much like the Professor Lupin who had once been so sweet and kind and polite to her. The Professor Lupin who’d been wracked with guilt over her shoulder, who apologized at every turn, whenever she was quiet long enough for him to utter a genuine and troubled apology. “I should never have presumed—”

“Are you ashamed of the fact that you asked me to marry you?” Darcy interrupts, needing to know what about Sirius’ arrival has caused such a stark change in Lupin. “Be honest. Nothing you say now could possibly make me feel any worse than I do.”

There’s a raging conflict behind those sweet, soft brown eyes of his. “I hope . . .” It’s as if he’s trying very hard to keep his voice level, to not let through any sign of emotion. She wishes Lupin would just speak freely instead of whatever odd and formal speak this is, as if she’s a stranger. “I hope I’m not the cause for your mood.”

“I think I’ve just got cabin fever. That is what they call it, don’t they?”

Lupin’s mouth twitches just barely. “Understandable,” he sighs. “I regret that you’re unable to leave the house. Fresh air would do you much good, and would likely clear your head.”

Darcy swallows hard. “You didn’t answer my question.” When Lupin’s eyes widen slightly, she elaborates, despite knowing he’s well aware of what she wants. “Are you ashamed of wanting to marry me?”

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head. “Never think that. Nothing you do could ever bring me shame.”

“Then what’s the problem? If I haven’t done anything, why are you so . . .” Darcy gestures vaguely towards him, unsure of how to describe his behavior.

Lupin rubs the shadow on his jaw roughly. “It shames me to stand there and think that I once had the audacity to believe I would ever be deserving of you. It shames me to think that I had been bold enough to ask you to marry me, knowing full well I could never provide what you deserved.” His hand jumps to his hair, almost like a nervous tic, and his fingers scratch hard at his scalp as he combs them through that pretty brown hair. “I had been alone for so long before you, and when we parted ways—you, back to Hogwarts, and me in my home—I craved your company. I had grown used to your company, and was desperate for your company all the time. I was afraid to be alone again. When I asked you to marry me, I . . .” His cheeks turn pink, and Darcy softens, wanting to reach out and hold his face in her hands just so he’ll look at her. “I had forced myself to ignore that you were only nineteen, the daughter of James and Lily, Sirius’ goddaughter.” And then he groans, covering his face with his hands. “You were only _nineteen_ ,” he says into his palms.

Darcy doesn’t think this is a good time to remind him she was even younger than that when they’d first slept together. She’s sure he hasn’t forgotten, anyway.

He lets out a strangled moan again as if preparing to transform into a werewolf, painful and agonizing. “Oh, God . . . I’ve defiled you, violated you—”

“Where are you getting that idea?” Darcy asks quickly, wanting nothing more than to draw him into her arms and soothe him. “You’ve never done anything to me against my wishes. Everything you’ve done, I’ve _wanted_.”

“You don’t understand,” Lupin says, lowering his hands from his face to reveal a very harassed looking expression on his face. “What kind of parents would ever want their daughter to be with . . .”

“You?”

“Not just me,” he finishes. “Something like me.”

As little as Darcy knows of her parents, of what she’s seen of her parents, maybe she isn’t the right person to speak for them, but she does anyway. “That doesn’t seem like something my mother and father would think. They never thought any differently of you because of what you are, and nor have I.”

“I’m too old for you . . . I had a responsibility, an obligation, a certain kind of duty to you when I arrived at Hogwarts, and I failed miserably.” He shakes his head. “I have not only let you down, but everyone who cares about you, all because I was weak-minded, in love with the idea of falling in love, forgetting all else but that.”

Darcy searches his face for an explanation, but he’s hard to read. Her heartbeat begins to quicken, and she reaches out to touch him, but thinks better of it at the last second, forcing her hands at her sides, fists clenched right. “What are you saying?” she whispers.

Lupin ignores her question, and when he speaks again, it’s more to himself. It’s as if she’s nothing but a ghost before him. “How could I not have fallen in love with you?” he says softly, scoffing, not unkindly. “When you recited Shakespeare so beautifully to me, like it was written specifically to be read by you. You opened up to me willingly, showed me such trust that I had never expected. That certain grace you have about you, your smile— _Christ_ , your smile!—and your laugh . . . you deserve to be somebody’s, but not mine.”

“Stop it,” Darcy protests, unable to keep her blush at bay. His words please her, even when spoken with a horrible sense of regret and loss. “I hate it when you say things like that. What do I have to do to prove to you I don’t care?”

Lupin looks at her for a moment as if searching for an answer, some kind of test for her to complete in order to prove she loves him, but he comes up short. “I love you, Darcy. I have never loved anyone the way that I love you. I have never once lied about how I feel for you.” He sighs, steadying himself. “And I love you too much to continue to hold you back, to slowly destroy all your relationships with people that you love.”

Darcy feels the wind get knocked out of her just by his words. “Don’t say that. I’ve lost you once, and I’ve no desire to lose you again.”

“You’re not losing me—you will never lose me,” he replies, finally reaching up to tuck a few loose strands of hair behind her ears. “I promise you, whether you like it or not, to make up for all those years you were alone, I will be apart of your life from now until the end. But this time, I will not allow myself to be so selfish.”

It’s like he’s a completely different person. Darcy can’t remember the last time he’d been so formal with her outside of Hogwarts, and for a moment, it makes her wary. “What is my greatest fear?” she asks.

“Losing Harry. Or becoming your Aunt Petunia. A fear of the unknown, the future, or being alone—”

“All right, I get it.” Darcy holds a hand up to stop him, feeling humiliated at his ability to just list off her fears without a single thought. “I just needed to make sure it was you.”

“Why wouldn’t I be me?”

“Maybe I’d hoped it wasn’t really you saying these things.” Darcy sighs. She knows nothing she can say will change his mind—not right now, anyway. “Remus, I am . . . really, truly sorry for what I said to Gemma. I know that she was your friend, too, and I . . . I’m sorry.”

Lupin smiles very weakly. “I’m not the one due an apology.” He clenches and unclenches his jaw. “I am sorry, Darcy, for everything. Your shoulder, my pathetic excuse for a proposal, how things ended, my behavior towards you since then . . . I’ve not been the man I hoped to be, and all of this . . . the impending war, the missions, the meetings . . . I feel I’m losing sight of myself.”

Darcy nods slowly. “Maybe we could talk about it sometime.”

“I’d only bore you.”

“You could never bore me.”

“I’m sure if I tried hard enough, I could.” There's the ghost of a smile upon his lips, a smile that makes Darcy feel that not all is lost. Time is all he needs—time to heal from the fresh wounds, time to recover mentally and emotionally from his time among the werewolves, from the sleepless nights due to nightmares and guard duty. She feels that there’s nothing left to say, so Darcy turns to walk away, but she only gets three steps away before he calls for her. “One more thing.”

Darcy stops, looking over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

“I didn’t want to kiss her, honest. And I told her so.”

“What exactly did you tell her?”

“That, out of respect for you, I was flattered, but uninterested in pursuing anything with her.”

“How polite of you.” Darcy’s heart skips a beat. “That was much kinder than what I did to Professor Snape. I just pushed him away.”

Lupin smiles, but quickly attempts to stifle it. “I don’t know that giving Tonks a push would have gone over very well.” He inclines his head before backing away again. “Good-night, Darcy.”


	61. Chapter 61

“I very much appreciate your enthusiasm and company, Mr. Weasley, but I know you’re letting me win.”

“Nonsense!” Mr. Weasley smiles, eyes alight with said enthusiasm as the fire in the hearth dances in them. Hardly looking down at the chessboard, he moves his pawn lazily towards one of Darcy’s rooks. “What could possibly make you think such a thing?”

“Remus does the same thing.” Darcy takes his pawn, and Mr. Weasley deliberately moves one of his knights to open his king to her. “Checkmate.”

“Smart man,” Mr. Weasley chuckles, glancing over towards the armchair where Lupin has one leg thrown over the arm, the other stretched out in front of him, a book in his hands and an unabashed smile on his face in response to Mr. Weasley’s praise. “Another round? This time, I promise I won’t go easy on you. No mercy. Is that what you want?”

“Maybe a little mercy would be nice,” Darcy confesses, replacing her pieces on the board, her legs tucked under her as the fire warms her bare thighs. “I think I quite like having my ego stroked. You’re too good to me.”

Both Mr. Weasley and Lupin laugh at this. “You and everyone else in this world,” he teases, considering his next move carefully by tapping his chin with his index finger. Darcy leans back on the hard carpet, propping herself up on her hands while waiting. “Counting down the days until summer holiday?”

“I’ve been counting down the days since I came here for good,” Darcy replies, taking one of his bishops.

“Good girl. Dumbledore made it very clear before he disappeared that he wants Harry to return to Privet Drive just once before coming here. I fear I may already know the answer, but would you like me to escort you back for a few days? If you’d like to collect any personal effects you have there to bring back.”

“Do I have to go?” Darcy asks quickly, looking up into Mr. Weasley’s face. “How long would it be, really?”

“No more than a few days, I swear it,” Mr. Weasley answers with an apologetic and rather understanding look on his face. “And then you and Harry can come right back here.” When Darcy doesn’t answer after a moment, he plunges on. “Truly, sweetheart, I am loathe to bring you back there after seeing the state of you when you first arrived here last summer. No one will force you to go back if you don’t want to. It doesn’t have to be me that brings you back, either. If you’d like, Remus could—”

“ _No_ ,” Darcy says loudly, earning her bewildered looks from both men in the room. She blushes. “Not that I . . . it’s just . . .” She looks at Lupin. “It’s better for you and for me if you stay as far away from that house as possible.”

“A discussion for another time, then,” Mr. Weasley concedes. “We’ll talk about it again in a few days.”

Darcy is happy with this, and the chess match resumes.

She can’t express (not that she hasn’t tried already in the past few hours) her gratitude towards Mr. Weasley for taking time from work to be with her. While the past few days haven’t been as awful as she’d imagined, it’s nice to spend time with an outsider, someone who is familiar with her and kind and not overbearing. Mr. Weasley doesn’t ask her questions that make her uncomfortable (with the exception of the one he’s just asked), doesn’t bring up her relationship with Lupin, or the scars upon her shoulder. In fact, it’s quite like spending time with a father (which is essentially what she’s doing), something that Sirius has not been able to quite get the hang of yet.

In fact, spending time with Mr. Weasley makes her happy—a feeling that she’s felt these past few days that she wasn’t able to place. Having spent so much time feeling miserable and trapped, Darcy had almost forgotten the pleasurable turning of her stomach means happiness. It’s an odd feeling, considering all that’s happened in the past few days, and a very ominous feeling, as well, as if some higher power is lulling her into a false sense of security. Happiness and bliss usually equates to something terrible happening, she’s learned, and she hopes it’s not the same this time.

Despite the unwelcome break in whatever relationship Darcy had with Lupin, she finds that, now that he’s voiced his honest feelings to her and both of their secrets have been revealed, there’s a sense of comfort there. Lupin has not forgone his promise to be involved in or a part of Darcy’s life, nor has he avoided her or shown any sign of a grudge or of animosity towards her. Since their talk in the corridor, she and Lupin have thankfully fallen into a routine, a mutual understanding of what they expect and want from each other without actually having to say it. Mr. Weasley and Kingsley had been more than accommodating when asked to cover his guard duty after explaining he’d very much like to spend a few days at home after being gone so much. He makes meals for Darcy without being asked to, as if it’s second nature, and they read together by the fire in the drawing room, not to each other, but in a comfortable silence with the fire crackling. They play chess and Exploding Snap, sometimes Darcy plays the piano while he listens attentively or else reads or dozes off on the sofa, and one afternoon Lupin insists she show him all the photographs she’s taken over the past year, to which she happily obliges. There aren’t as many picture taken as the previous year, but he seems to like them all the same, even asking to have one of him and Sirius that Darcy had taken around Christmas. They exchange small, shy smiles across rooms, accidentally bump feet underneath the table during meals, their hands sometimes brush distractedly while sitting together.

It all reminds Darcy very much of their relationship as student and professor, and she remembers how happy his presence had made her at Hogwarts, and it seems some of that old happiness has leaked into her. Lupin slowly becomes his normal self over the next few days, joking more, laughing like his old self. Darcy cuts his shaggy hair and he shaves his face completely, looking a new man afterwards, years younger than he typically looks. His smile and humor are contagious, their simple and accidental contact never fails to makes Darcy blush again and feel no more than fifteen at most with a crush on her professor. He’s an extraordinary friend and, knowing Darcy so intimately, knows how to cheer her when she’s feeling lonely or caged, knows how to make her laugh when she begins to shrink into and fall back inside her own head. It seems Lupin’s main goal is to keep Darcy from torturing herself with her thoughts, and it works very well.

And at night, in the privacy of her own bedroom, Darcy thinks of him. She craves the feel of his arms around her, his heartbeat at her back, the lazy circles he likes to trace on her skin. He invades her dreams as well as her everyday life, but in dreams, he loves her openly and without shame. It makes Darcy think afterwards, which becomes dangerous. Lupin seems to have no shame in being her friend—he leaps to her defense when he feels someone has overstepped, praises her confidently when he feels she’s done a good job at something, listens well to every little thing that she says without complaint, encourages her to speak what’s on her mind when she seems upset. And all of these things, Lupin does without hesitation as her friend; he does not seem the same uncertain and sheepish individual he had been when showing affection publicly towards her in an intimate setting with people he respects.

_Is something wrong with me_? she asks herself constantly during her evening baths, as she scrubs away at her scars, wishing and praying they’ll be scrubbed off completely. _Why was he so embarrassed to be my . . . what were we? Have we ever been anything since the day we met again here at Grimmauld Place?_ Anxiety always gnaws at her about this, and she wonders always if Lupin has found out her secret— _the_ secret—the loss of a dream that will never be realized now. But that’s silly . . . how would Lupin know she may not be able to have children? Emily wouldn’t tell him, and Darcy trusts Snape with that secret to the grave—Snape isn’t likely to share a secret about Darcy with Lupin of that nature, but more likely to claim that knowledge as a victory against Lupin. _I know something you don’t._ That’s how Darcy would see it, if she were in his position.

Frankly, however, with all the joy that he brings her, Darcy can’t get enough of Lupin. And yet, as much as she wants to touch him, to kiss him, to show him how much she loves him, Darcy finds that finally hearing how much he loves her is freeing. It’s enough for now—enough to get her through until the summer, when Harry will be around to keep her company and share her happiness again.

Sirius doesn’t share that joy in the slightest. He skulks around the house in a very Kreacher-like way, always smelling of stale drink in a very Mundungus-like way. He doesn’t join in their conversations, is quick to anger, and his warm and easy humor is now cold and bitter and biting. He steals cigarettes from Darcy even though she’d give him some if he asked, disappears for hours and returns smelling like an unwashed hippogriff, and—perhaps the strangest thing—he doesn’t bring up Lupin’s marriage proposal at all. Not in a snide or snarky way, not in a curious or prying way, not in a kind and interested way. He says absolutely nothing about it, which makes Darcy uneasy.

Darcy takes the opportunity to catch Sirius alone one evening after Lupin retires to bed early. While sorting through the pantry, getting rid of dust-covered and long expired food, Darcy finds a very old bottle of whiskey pushed towards the back in a shadowy corner. Once Sirius gives her express and eager permission to open it, she pours them both a glass. The alcohol burns her throat on the way down, but it’s rather easy to drink after the first few sips as long as she holds her nose. It brings tears to her eyes and clears his sinuses, and Darcy feels that if she continues this way, she’ll pass out drunk right at the kitchen table. So she slows her pace, trying to keep up with Sirius, but having to back down after a little while.

And then, unable to hold back, annoyed at his determined silence and full of liquid courage, Darcy blurts out, “Are you not going to ask me at all about what you heard the other night?”

It’s not that she’s particularly looking to field accusations and angry remarks, but part of her is slightly hurt Sirius hasn’t asked. Surely her godfather would be most interested in something like this, even if the other party is his best and oldest friend. She imagines Mr. Weasley would ask her all kinds of things— _how did it happen? What did he say? What did you say?_ After all, if roles were reversed and Sirius told her someone asked him to marry them or he asked someone else, Darcy feels she wouldn’t be able to hold back with burning questions. She’d want to know every detail, every small thing from the tone of the question to the after effects. To think that Sirius doesn’t care about these things in relation to Darcy is slightly insulting.

“What do you expect me to say?” Sirius asks, not unkindly. His eyes flick to her left hand and back. “I don’t see a ring, so I assumed it was a rather touchy subject.”

Darcy holds out her left hand, extending her long and slender fingers as if expecting to see a ring. “I don’t know if ‘touchy’ is the right word.” She curls her hand into a fist and looks up at Sirius again. “Don’t you want to know what happened?”

“I can’t pretend I haven’t been curious.” A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, but it’s sad, and it fades quickly. “I suppose I was just waiting for the proper setting.” Sirius heaves a deep sigh, sipping at his drink, looking completely broken. “You know what . . . don’t tell me. If it will preserve Remus’ dignity, I’d rather not know.”

“No,” Darcy says suddenly. Of course she wants to preserve Lupin’s dignity, but she always wants Sirius to know the truth. “I don’t want you walking away with a false idea of what happened. Does it anger you? That he asked me to marry him?”

“No! Merlin, _no_ —I don’t think, anyway,” he says, rubbing his temples. When Sirius looks back into her face again, Darcy notices the bags beneath his eyes, the exhausted look to him that seems to eliminate all progress he’d made towards good health again. He looks closer to the man she’d met in the Shrieking Shack than he has in months. “It was foolish of me to . . . to think that things would fit into place like I’d dreamed while in Azkaban.” The word makes him shudder visibly. “I did not imagine, in a thousand or a million years, that you and Remus would want a life together, one that I wasn’t apart of.”

Darcy’s chest tightens. “That’s not true,” she protests gently. “We both love you very much, and we would have wanted you to be apart of our life if it came down to it.”

Sirius smiles, but it’s more of a sneer. “It’s my fault. My fault that I’d assumed you’d accept me with open arms directly out of Azkaban. I wanted to take care of you, Darcy, as repayment for allowing Hagrid to rip you from my arms all those years ago. But Remus beat me to it.”

“He didn’t—” Darcy stops abruptly, pursing her lips just like Aunt Petunia, of half a mind to take the alcohol away from him. “The relationship that Remus and I have is very different from the one you and I have. You have to understand . . . when you were in hiding, I . . . you and I didn’t have that time to know each other like Remus and I did. We had months together to learn and to understand, while we were given stolen moments and letters. It isn’t fair, but it doesn’t mean I love you any less for it. I know it’s not your fault that the circumstances were less than ideal.”

Sirius runs a hand through his hair, looking so close to tears that it makes Darcy cry. She quickly wipes at her eyes and Sirius has the good grace to pretend not to notice. “I’m not upset that he asked you to marry him, Darcy,” he confesses quietly, keeping his eyes on his drink as he fingers the lip of it. “I’m upset that your desire to start a family with Remus outweighed your desire to be a proper family with me, and I can’t even be mad at you for that. I can’t even blame you at all for wanting that.”

“Sirius . . .” Darcy reaches out to touch his arm, pleased he doesn’t pull away when she curls her fingers around his forearm. “Whatever future I have, whether Remus is in it or not . . . I want you there. I want to be apart of a family, but I’m twenty now. I’m not five, and soon I’ll—I’ll want more.”

“You want to get married?” Sirius asks, lifting his head to look her in the eyes.

Darcy feels breathless at the thought. “Very much.”

“And children?”

She hesitates. Here is an opportunity to involve Sirius, just like he wants. Here is an opportunity to show him that she does love him, does trust him. But it’s so hard to say the words. Darcy isn’t sure what prevents her from saying them. “Yes. In a perfect world, I’d have children.”

“And in a not-so-perfect world?” The question certainly isn’t annoying, but curious, as if Sirius already knows what she wants to say without her having to actually say it.

Darcy clears her throat, feeling her cheeks turn pink. “Yet to be determined.”

“And Moony?” Sirius seems unabashed about it, but the question—those two simple words—make Darcy blush harder, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “His thoughts on children?”

Considering she doesn’t really have an answer for him, Darcy decides to just be as vague as possible. “In a perfect world, maybe.” _In a perfect world, we’d have five children, living in the yellow house with the big garden out front, just like he promised._

“A perfect world where he’s not a werewolf?” Sirius continues, slightly too understanding.

“Yeah, something like that.” Darcy drinks deeply from her glass, wanting nothing more in this moment to escape a conversation about children. “We’d never really talked about it. We had other concerns at the time.”

Sirius smiles weakly, a softer smile than before. “You’d be a wonderful mother.”

As sweet as his words are, they make her cry—hard. Darcy sobs immediately into her hands and she feels Sirius place a steadying hand on her back.

“I’m sorry—was it . . . something I said?” he asks quickly, panic in his voice.

“I don’t think I can have children.” Darcy lowers her hands to look in his face, to see his reaction. There isn’t much of one, but he looks to be processing this new information.

“Are you sure it isn’t . . . Remus?”

“I don’t know,” she admits breathily, trying to stop her tears from falling. “I feel it’s me, but I can’t tell him that. He’ll only blame himself . . . he knows I want children. It was one of the first real things I ever told him.” Darcy rubs hard at her eyes, wanting to ask one last question. “What do you think my parents would think? If they knew he wanted to marry me?”

Sirius thinks for a moment, his face unreadable. Finally, he gives her back a gentle pat and shrugs. “Better Moony than some other prick, right?”

* * *

As the days drag on and Darcy marks them off on her calendar (if she didn’t, she thinks she might go insane not even knowing the date), there is one peculiar thing that makes her very wary—the fact that Kreacher seems to spend far too much time loitering and skulking outside her bedroom. He’s always muttering, as if speaking to someone else about Darcy, but never directly to her. He can never look into her face for longer than a few seconds, bulging and bloodshot eyes always farting around the walls and floor, his grotesque mouth twisted into what must only be his version of a smile. Every word he says, however, makes chills run up and down Darcy’s spine, reminding her that this foul and vile little creature is watching her and listening to her so closely, and she wonders if he shares this information with anyone else—the portrait of Mrs. Black, for instance, or possibly with Phineas Nigellus, whom Darcy has not tried to approach again after the incident with Gemma (at any thought of Gemma, Darcy’s heart pangs something horribly).

“Kreacher sees . . . Kreacher listens . . . Kreacher knows . . .” he always says isn’t that horrible strangled voice of his. Today is no different. “Mistress has put a spell on her door . . . Mistress doesn’t want Kreacher to hear her crying at night . . . tossing and turning in her bed . . . Kreacher hears the brat’s desires . . . her wants . . . desperate for freedom, her brother, her friends . . .”

Darcy ignores him, trying not to display any fear on her face. He slinks away, walking with his shoulders hunched. Darcy only feels half guilty for hating him, S.P.E.W. member or no.

It’s early Thursday morning—or late Wednesday night depending on how you look at it—when _something_ happens. Darcy wakes to lots of noise below her bedroom, the many shuffling of feet and the talking of panicked voices. She hears Lupin run by her bedroom door, the sharp opening and closing of Sirius’ own bedroom door as he follows down the stairs. Neither bother to knock at Darcy’s door or try to wake her, but her curiosity gets the better of her. She glances at the clock on her nightstand, receiving a shock to learn it’s three o’clock in the morning. Leaping out of bed, Darcy doesn’t bother pulling on a shirt that covers her shoulder, instead wrapping a blanket around herself and running from her bedroom and going downstairs as fast as she can.

Not everyone is here, but the more important people if Darcy can be so bold. Mad-Eye Moody’s wooden leg is thumping hard against the ground and he urges everyone inside the kitchen, led by Sirius and Lupin, still in their pajamas and nightclothes. Kingsley is there, fully dressed but looking exhausted, Tonks follows him with light brown and messy hair, while rubbing at her eyes. Snape brings up the rear, dressed in his black robes as usual, looking wide awake and alert. Darcy lingers at the top of the last set of stairs and Snape catches sight of her out of the corner of his eye. He freezes, considering her.

“Come, Darcy,” he commands, beckoning her towards him with his index finger.

Heart flipping in her chest at the idea of being included, Darcy obeys without question, Snape’s familiar hand coming to rest on the nape of her neck as he escorts her inside the kitchen. Lupin narrows his eyes at Snape, but Mad-Eye intervenes as Lupin opens his mouth to protest.

“Let her listen without use of an Extendable Ear,” Moody growls, clearly eager to get started. Snape gently pushes Darcy into the empty seat between himself and Kingsley. “Well, I think we all knew it would come to this, though not in this way.”

Everyone is quiet. Darcy unconsciously grips Snape’s forearm beneath the table, her fingernails digging into her skin. He says nothing, nor does he show any indication he feels any pain. Darcy’s only thankful it’s his right arm that’s on her side. What could possibly have happened to warrant an emergency meeting so late at night?

Snape is the one who speaks next as Moody’s curt nod. “Dolores Umbridge has taken it upon herself to drive Hagrid from the grounds, just hours ago. The intention was to have him arrested, accompanied by several Aurors, around midnight.”

“Not Hagrid!” Sirius growls, slamming a fist on the table.

Darcy’s breathing quickens and her fingers tighten still on Snape’s arm—until he turns to her abruptly and says in a flat voice, “Could you loosen your grip any?”

The room goes silent and Darcy blushes as everyone looks at her. She quickly releases Snape’s arm altogether. “Sorry,” she whispers, holding her hands in her lap. “Did they take him?”

“No. Hagrid managed to escape, but he is still eluding us, as well as the Ministry,” Snape answers, running a hand down his left arm to smooth out the fabric of his sleeve. “However, Minerva attempted to intervene and was hit with four Stunning Spells to the chest.”

At this, Sirius actually jumps to his feet. Everyone begins talking angrily, at each other or at Snape or to themselves. Darcy only looks at Snape, hoping that this story will not end the way she thinks it’s going to end. Snape ignores the others while they issue threats and curse the Ministry and Umbridge, seemingly only having eyes for Darcy. With the uproar from mostly Sirius and Tonks, with a few snide comments added by Lupin, Darcy feels unable to speak.

“Are you all right?” Snape asks her, quiet enough for only her to hear. When she can give no answer, he turns back to the group at large. “Not in good shape, last I saw her, but alive and fighting. St Mungo’s has been contacted and Minerva will be transported as soon as they are able to retrieve her from Hogwarts. Smythe, in particular, was to be put on the case.”

“Gemma?” Sirius asks, and he smiles, sighing in relief and looking half a boy again. “Then McGonagall will be okay. Gemma knows what she’s doing.”

Snape scowls at Sirius across the table. “McGonagall was hit with four Stunning Spells in the chest, or weren’t you listening? Smythe is no Healer, nor do I think it will be an easy task to help Minerva recover for an actual Healer.”

The room is quiet for a moment as everyone looks down into their laps, examines their nails, looking distressed. Kingsley is the one to break the silence, clearing his throat with a very dramatic effect most unlike him, turning to face Darcy. “Darcy, it is now very important—more so than ever—to keep you well hidden from any Ministry workers that may deem you a threat. Umbridge is determined to put away everyone who is seemingly too close to Dumbledore.”

Darcy nods. “Okay.” Suddenly, everyone’s eyes on her make her very uncomfortable. She looks at Snape again, opens her mouth to speak, and then closes it.

“The students aren’t safe at Hogwarts anymore,” Lupin tells Mad-Eye, his brow furrowed, his hair still disheveled from sleep. “No Dumbledore, no McGonagall, no Hagrid. She’s isolating Harry from every person who’s determined to keep him safe.”

“That is the dilemma,” Mad-Eye replies gruffly. “Regardless, the boy’s exams are almost over. We need to extract him from Hogwarts as soon as possible if Albus isn’t coming back anytime soon.”

“But he _must_ ,” Tonks insists, looking equally stricken. “Dumbledore can’t be kept away from his school by that—” The word she uses causes Darcy to look away, blushing.

Not much is solved during the meeting. It’s a lot of abusing Umbridge verbally, lamenting on the loss of Hagrid and McGonagall, anxiety and fear and doubt. After a few minutes, Mad-Eye decides to call an end to the meeting now that the information has been delivered, and Snape lingers in the kitchen, fastening his traveling cloak back around him. Darcy follows him to the front door, trailing after him like a lost puppy dog, feeling very much that he’d rather she go away, but Snape says nothing of the sort.

“Do not leave this house, do you understand?” Snape asks her quietly, a hand upon her shoulder, the blanket discarded now that there’s no one in the house who hasn’t seen her scars. “Promise me, Darcy.”

She only looks at him, her gaze slowly falling to her feet as she loses herself in her thoughts. How could she possibly promise him that knowing the state of Hogwarts? The people she relied on most to watch over Harry, now all gone, in hiding, missing, incapacitated. If her fake coin were to burn, to signal trouble, could Darcy force herself to stay out knowing Harry is in danger?

It’s as if Snape has read her thoughts. If she had been looking into his eyes, Darcy would accuse him of reading her mind. “Look at me, Darcy.” Ashamed of being so easy for him to read, Darcy looks the other way towards a grimy wall. “Darcy,” Snape says in a low and warning voice. “Darcy, look at me.” He holds her chin with his index finger and thumb, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. “Promise me.”

Darcy pauses. “I promise,” she whispers.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” she says firmly. Though Snape doesn’t look convinced, he lowers his hand from her face and doesn’t press her anymore about it. “What about you? You’re close to Dumbledore. You won’t be forced out, will you? Doesn’t she think you know where I am?”

“Thankfully, I’m a much better liar than you.” His mouth twitches. “It’s far easier to pretend I don’t care for you when you aren’t attached to my hip.” Snape must notice the involuntary way that her face falls, because his eyes widen slightly and he takes hold of her upper arm as if afraid she’ll leave. “Don’t apologize. I meant no offense, only reassurance.”

Darcy has a hard time believing Snape can read her face so well to know when she’s going to apologize. She glances over her shoulder to check for eavesdroppers, but it seems both Sirius and Lupin have retreated back to bed. She turns back to Snape, her voice still hardly above a whisper. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Your concern is noted,” Snape replies, and the mirroring of her words all those months ago—almost an entire year ago—makes Darcy smile. He releases her arm without needing to be asked. “But quite unnecessary.”

“If I don’t worry about you, then who will?” Darcy asks, raising an eyebrow.

Snape blushes, a sight that still makes Darcy feel very privately pleased. He exhales through his hooked nose. “You will stay in the house, then?”

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

“Lies. You’ve made plenty of promises that you’ve left unfulfilled. Shall I list them?”

Darcy rolls her eyes, but doesn’t bother trying to hide her smile. “You’re not funny.”

Snape raises his dark eyebrows nearly to his hairline. “Your drunk self disagrees.”

“Your first mistake is listening to anything my drunk self says,” Darcy laughs, glad to see a smile grace Snape’s face.

He allows her laughter to fade before becoming more serious, clenching and unclenching his jaw. “Listen to me,” he begins, and Darcy quiets at once. “I do not care what happens to Black, but you do. If you leave this house, what do you think is the first thing he will do?”

“Come after me.”

“Exactly. So stay put, understand?” Snape looks as if he’s bursting to say something more and hesitates. “Your safety already has me on edge while I’m at Hogwarts. Do not give me further reason to worry.”

Darcy smiles in spite of herself. “Your concern is noted, Professor Snape, but quite unnecessary.”

Snape sighs, exasperated. “The day that any concern for you will be unnecessary will be a celebratory day, I’m sure.”

“Will there ever be a day where you feel your concern for me is unnecessary?”

“Likely not.” Snape gives her a small smile, but as quick as it appears, it’s gone. “I know you’re not your mother, Darcy.”

Darcy blushes, feeling the heat from her head to her toes. She suddenly wishes she hadn’t abandoned the blanket. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. It was wrong of me.”

“I shouldn’t have . . .” He trails off here, squirming uncomfortably. “No matter. I don’t require an apology from you. You had every right to be cautious. I swear to you, Darcy, I will never put you in that situation again.”

“Are you ill?”

“No,” Snape answers rather skeptically, narrowing his eyes at her. “Tired, I suppose, but not ill. Why?”

Darcy chuckles. “I’m teasing you. You just don’t seem yourself, is all. All this apology business . . . but I think it suits you.”

“Don’t push it.” His expression is unamused, but Darcy knows better than to take him at face value. “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon, and if not . . . then during the summer, and we’ll discuss your future at Hogwarts at that time.”

“All right. Now, go,” she insists, pushing him very gently towards the door. “I’m tired and I’d like to go back to bed.”

“Good-night, Darcy.”

“Good-night, Professor Snape.”

* * *

Darcy spends much of the next day mulling over what she’d heard about Hagrid and McGonagall. Neither Sirius or Lupin seem very keen on bringing it up in front of Darcy, but she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t want to talk about it. She tries very hard to distract herself, but to no avail.

She eats the breakfast Lupin makes for her, only to keep it from going to waste, despite the fact she isn’t really hungry. She plays the piano, but can’t keep the rhythm and stops after half a song. Lupin asks her to read to him instead of reading silently beside her, likely to keep her mind focused on the pages of the book, but she trips over her words and stutters until there are tears in her eyes and Lupin tells her gently that she doesn’t have to go on. She wanders the house, plays chess with Sirius until it fries her brain, takes a hot bath and ends up falling asleep, only waking up when Lupin pounds on the door calling her name.

“What?” she asks, rubbing her eyes, the bath water lukewarm and making goosebumps rise on her skin.

“You’ve been in there for a long time. Just making sure you aren’t dead.”

“Definitely not dead.”

“Thank you for the report.”

After her bath, Sirius has an early dinner ready for her, and the three of them eat a quiet meal together before going their separate ways. Sirius cleans up after dinner, Lupin excuses himself for a short mission, and Darcy asks not to be disturbed afterwards, locking herself in her room, slipping headphones over her head and looking through the music Emily had given her. It’s all Muggle music that Darcy is unfamiliar with, but Emily seems to know her taste just fine. For tonight, she chooses instrumental music, not wanting to be distracted by words.

Darcy closes her eyes as the music washes over her, just as the sun begins its slow descent over London. By her count, if she’s correct, today should be Harry’s last O.W.L. exam, and he’s likely in the common room at this very moment, celebrating the end of O.W.L. year with his friends. It hurts her heart to know that she’s not able to celebrate with him, but maybe he’s thinking of her, and maybe she can throw him a party when he returns for the holidays.

But is he celebrating? Surely Hagrid’s departure has struck a chord with Harry, and surely McGonagall’s departure has affected him in some way, as well. Darcy begins to panic again, trying to keep calm, but her racing heart betrays her. All she can think of is Harry, alone, all adults responsible for him gone—Dumbledore and Hagrid missing; McGonagall at St Mungo’s; Sirius and Lupin and herself unable to go anywhere near Hogwarts, let alone leave the house for the most part.

Darcy reaches over to her nightstand, opening the drawer and pulling out the fake Knut that is supposed to signal danger. It’s not hot, but completely unchanged and worthless. She throws it back on her nightstand, wishing for summer.

She doesn’t know when she falls asleep. When she next wakes, the sky is a beautiful mixture of reds and pinks, the setting sun shining bright through her window and causing a glare. The headphones are still over her ears, one of them pressing hard against her temple, the music done playing and silent. And someone is touching her arm, shaking her—a hand that is not Sirius’ or Lupin’s or even Snape’s—a hand that is most unfamiliar and too tiny to even be a full grown human . . .

Darcy sits up quickly, throwing the walkman to the side and tangling herself in the sheets. There is no one in her room but Kreacher, and it disgusts her to think he’d been touching her while asleep. He takes a step back, a sneer on his face. “Get out, Kreacher,” she hisses in his face, his nose nearly touching hers. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

“Apologies, Mistress . . . Kreacher is most sorry, but his Mistress is such a heavy sleeper . . . she would not wake at Kreacher’s knocking . . .” Kreacher’s words are smooth and laced with ice. He bows low to the ground, an odd sight, a peculiar sight, and then straightens back up. “An urgent message, Mistress, came through while Mistress was sleeping . . .”

“Well?” she asks, leaning forward still, heart pounding in her chest. Within seconds, Kreacher has nearly sent her spiraling into a panic attack. “What’s the message, Kreacher?”

His smile grows, an ugly thing to see on his face. “Mistress’ brother has gone to the Ministry.”

Darcy tenses, every nerve in her entire body freezing over. Surely she’s heard him wrong. Why would Harry go to the Ministry? Is it something to do with Umbridge? “What? Why? Who told you this?”

“The brat’s head appeared in the kitchen fire, it did,” Kreacher continues, and Darcy feels the blood drain from her face. Everything has gone cold, and a chill runs up Darcy’s spine, lifting the hair on the back of her neck. “Pleading for his sister to help him . . .”

“Why did he go?” Darcy grabs clumsily at Kreacher’s ragged clothing, pulling him bodily off the floor to hold his face to hers. “Kreacher, tell me the truth!”

“To the Department of Mysteries, he said—”

“The Department of Mysteries?” Darcy breathes. Kreacher squirms in her grip, his feet kicking as if treading water. His face turns ugly the angrier he gets, the longer Darcy keeps her hands on him. He attempts to pry her fingers off the towel he wears, unable to match her strength with his brittle hands. “Where’s Sirius? Have you told him?”

“Master is treating the hippogriff for an injury,” Kreacher croaks, finally succeeding in freeing himself and dropping with a thump on the floor.

Kreacher doesn’t leave the room, but touches his wrinkled throat as she thinks quick, massaging his skin. As far as Darcy sees things, she has two choices: to either go to the Ministry herself and pull Harry out of any immediate danger without telling Sirius, or alert Sirius and the Order and have them rescue Harry. But if he had begged for Darcy . . . if he’d pleaded for Darcy instead of Sirius . . . there must have been a reason Harry had asked for her, if he needed help . . . he wouldn’t have risked appearing in the fire again unless something was really wrong . . . he wouldn’t have asked for Darcy, wouldn’t have risked her being caught and sent to Azkaban unless it was really important . . .

But how to get there? Darcy doesn’t think she’s quite comfortable Apparating to the visitors’ entrance, as she’s only been there once, and getting Splinched now would not be ideal. And she’s sure Apparating directly into the Ministry would be the best route. She could take the Underground like she and Harry and Mr. Weasley had, but she doesn’t have any Muggle money, and checking her watch, she’s sure the Underground has stopped running for the night. Without money for a cab, that’s out of the question, as well. She could walk, but she isn’t sure that she could find her way to the visitors’ entrance, and who knows how long that walk would take? There’s only one thing for it—she’ll have to take the Knight Bus, despite not having the money for it. She could give Stan whatever she has, which might add up to half the price of a ticket, and maybe he’d accept a kiss as the rest of the payment.

“Kreacher, don’t tell Sirius, please, can you do that?” Darcy whispers. “Don’t tell him, please . . . he can’t know that I’ve gone.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Kreacher bows low again as Darcy leaps from bed, grabbing her wand and what little money she has on her, slipping on a pair of boots at the foot of her bed and sneaking out of her bedroom, Kreacher following at his own slow pace.

Darcy checks the corridor and heads down the staircase, tucking her wand in her waistband and placing a hand on the front doorknob, hesitating. Several warning surface to the front of her mind, and it makes her wary. How long ago had it been since Snape had burst into Grimmauld Place, begging her to promise not to go anywhere? She had overheard them speaking of people trying to lure her to the Ministry . . . could this be a trick? Hadn’t Gemma openly said they’d take her to torture her, to kill her, to hold her as ransom for Harry? Isn’t this exactly what Snape had been worried about? And he’d just begged her yesterday to promise to stay put, to stay in the house, to not give him any reason to worry . . .

_Maybe it is a trick_ , she thinks, gripping the doorknob tight, so tight that her knuckles turn white. _Better me than Sirius . . . he won’t stay put if he thinks Harry’s in trouble . . ._

And to just walk right into the Ministry! A possible suicide mission! Who’s to say that she won’t be arrested as soon as she sets foot in the Ministry? Maybe they could reach a bargain . . . maybe she could lie about Sirius and Lupin’s whereabouts for the promise of freedom . . . though she doubts Fudge would be so lenient with her this time, doubts that he would ever offer her another deal after disappearing with Dumbledore . . . but Harry is worth Azkaban . . . right?

And what if Sirius goes into her bedroom and realizes she’s not there? Would he ask Kreacher where she went and go after her himself? Or would he do the smart thing and assemble the Order to find her?

Despite her doubts, her fears, the outdoors calls to her. To step foot outside for the first time in months would be so sweet . . . to breathe air that isn’t infected with the misery and dust that is inside number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Darcy almost feels like she did the night she’d followed Lupin into the Shrieking Shack—every fiber of her being screaming in protest as she opens the front door so slowly it doesn’t even creak or make a sound. This is slightly ominous, but the cool summer air hits her like a train.

It’s like being born again, like breathing for the first time. The air lifts her dark red hair and it blows in the breeze as she takes her first step outside. When the door closes behind her and she walks down the front steps, Darcy glances over her shoulder to see the house disappearing behind her. The street is quiet, save for some cars rumbling in the distance, the headlights brightening the scene as they pass. After spending months inside the house, Darcy is overwhelmed with the open sky, as if it will swallow her whole as soon as she lifts her foot from the ground to take a step.

The sun is almost set in earnest now, the sky not as clear as it is in the mountains at Hogwarts. The eager ticking of her heart makes her feel faint, but if she does not do it now, she will not do it at all, and she will not allow her courage to fail her now—not now, when Harry has such need of her. He knows the risks of Darcy leaving, but needs her anyway . . . what could possibly be happening? Is it something to do with the weapon? With Voldemort? Or is he stuck in Umbridge’s clutches and expecting to be rescued by the Order?

_No_ , she tells herself, _Kreacher said he needed_ me.

_But what if Kreacher is lying?_ Why would he? What would Kreacher have to gain by sending Darcy to the Ministry of Magic?

Darcy throws out her right arm and within seconds—she blinks and it’s there—the Knight Bus is parked in front of her, unsteady on its wheels. Stan Shunpike climbs down the stairs in order to give his usual speech, growing mute at the sight of Darcy. He smiles ear to ear, uneven and crooked and yellowing teeth flashing at her.

“Darcy Potter,” he grins, folding his thin and gangly arms over his chest. “Last I ‘eard, you was a wanted criminal.”

“You going to turn me in?”

“There’s a reward for your capture.”

Darcy only looks at him, not in the mood for his games. “I need a ride.”

“Where to?” he asks, eyes flicking up and down her.

“I need you to take me to the Ministry’s visitors’ entrance.”

Stan snorts. “You got money for a ride?”

Darcy reaches in her pocket, pulling out what she has and dropping it into Stan’s outstretched hands. He counts it slowly as Darcy’s mouth goes dry. She knows it’s not enough, knows that Stan will realize that. “It’s not enough, I know. Maybe we could come to an arrangement.”

Stan pockets the money, still grinning. “Is today the day Darcy Potter has a kiss to spare for poor ol’ Stan Shunpike?”

She exhales loudly in relief, almost laughing despite how much she doesn’t want to kiss him. But thrilled that he’ll allow her on with the price of a kiss, Darcy grabs Stan by his bony shoulders and pulls her to him, kissing him hard for a few seconds. Once his slimy tongue touches her bottom lip, she pulls away and jumps up the stairs into the Knight Bus.

The beds are out this time, but there isn’t anyone on the bottom floor, much to her relief. She retreats to the back corner, curling up against the window to keep from anyone seeing her. Stan follows.

“I need you to take me there first,” she urges Stan. “It’s an emergency.”

“Turnin’ yourself in?” he asks casually, looking not at all eager to take her to the Ministry right away.

“Something like that.” She gets to her feet, kissing him again, this time letting Stan gag her with his tongue for a few more seconds before pulling away breathlessly. “Take me to the Ministry, Stan. _Now_.”

Stan turns, flushed, towards the driver. “Ministry visitors’ entrance, Ern! It’s an emergency!”

The bus takes off with a _BANG_! and Darcy lifts her legs as a bed comes rolling back towards her. She’s thrown around and jostled upon the hard mattress she’s seated upon as Ernie takes the turns at breakneck speed, dodging other cars and trash cans and lamp posts. Darcy is only glad she’ll be able to Apparate back, not wanting to ever have Stan Shunpike’s tongue in her mouth ever again.

In no time at all, the Knight Bus screeches to a halt yet again, in front of an old and vandalized phone booth that Darcy definitely recognizes. Stan talks in her ear, but Darcy sprints off the bus, throwing herself into the phone booth as the Knight Bus disappears loudly behind her. She lifts the receiver to her ear, just as Mr. Weasley has done, pausing with her finger above the dial, trying to remember the right combination of numbers.

“Six, two . . .” Darcy pauses again, her brain working so hard that her temples begin to throb painfully. “Four, four . . . two.”

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic,” comes the woman’s voice, so calm that it startles her in her panicked state. “Please state your name and business.”

_This is it_ , she thinks. _As soon as I go down, I’ll be walking into the most dangerous place for me right now._

But Harry’s there and in trouble, and it’s Harry she thinks of as she pants into the receiver: “Darcy Potter. I’m here to save my brother.”

She drops the receiver as a badge is spit out of the coin return slot with her name and _rescue mission_ written beneath it. Darcy pins it to her shirt as the telephone booth quakes beneath her feet, beginning its descent into the Ministry’s Atrium.

“It’s okay,” she whispers to herself, closing her eyes, half-afraid to open them. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. You can do this. Harry needs you. Okay, okay, okay. Breathe, Darcy, _breathe_.”

The telephone booth shudders to a halt and Darcy opens her eyes, reaching behind her to extract her wand. Gripping it tight in her hand, she opens the door and steps into the empty Atrium.

The _empty Atrium_.

She stands very still for a moment, expecting someone to come leaping out at her, dragging her away kicking and screaming to Azkaban. Not a single person is here—not the security person at the desk, or any lingering workers having a late night. The green fires that burn in the hearths set all along the walls are non-existent now, and Darcy is once again overwhelmed with the sheer size of the building. She feels eyes on her as she cautiously walks the length of the Atrium, past the Fountain of Magical Brethren, the only sounds the trickle of water from the several points on the statues, the echoing of her footsteps throughout the empty building, the pounding of her pulse in her ears, the shaky breaths that come heavily from deep in her chest.

It’s too late to turn back. She’s already here, already in the Ministry of Magic, so she forces herself to walk to the lifts. She barely presses the button to call one when one appears in front of her immediately, the golden grilles slamming open to allow her entry. Once inside, she presses the number nine button, just as Mr. Weasley had done the day of Harry’s hearing. The lift gives a great shudder and begins its descent, bringing her further and further into the bowels of the Ministry.

When she reaches the Department of Mysteries, hardly hearing the female voice announcing her arrival over the frantic beating of her own heart, Darcy takes a single step into the corridor, trying to think who might be on guard duty. She hadn’t thought about that before, and now she comes to think of it . . . someone should be here, someone should be able to help her . . . if she just explains what happened . . .

The corridor is dark, lit only by the torches on the walls. It reminds her of the dungeons at Hogwarts, bleak and dank, terrifying to some and comforting to others, like herself—but this corridor is not comforting in the slightest, and she just now realizes she isn’t sure where to go from here.

“Harry?” she asks, his name echoing down the corridor— _Harry? Harry? Harry? Harry?_

No one answers, not even an Order member on duty. Darcy figures she’ll just have to try every door she can . . . maybe Harry hasn’t gotten here yet . . . maybe she beat him—after all, her journey was much shorter. But something seems wrong. The fact that there is no one here to stop her, the feeling of being watched from someone just out of view. She takes a few more steps down the corridor, wondering if it’s safe or not to light her wand, just to be able to see that there’s no one watching her . . . what harm could it do? It’ll only comfort her . . .

Darcy raises her wand in front of her, breathing heavily. Before she can light her wand, however, a firm hand clamps over her mouth, pulling her to someone’s chest, and her wand is taken quite easily from her hand. Frozen with fear, Darcy hears a half-familiar voice in her ear, the man’s hair tickling her cheek.

“Don’t scream, little dove,” comes the drawling voice of Lucius Malfoy, his lips nearly touching her ear. “You’re outnumbered. Be a good girl, and you needn’t be bothered by my colleagues.” She feels the tip of his wand prod her lower back. “Cooperate, and you need only deal with me. And I won’t let any harm come to you, sweetling.”

Darcy lifts her leg, attempting to kick him where it’ll hurt the most, but there’s a tingling in her back that creeps up her spine and down to her toes, and her head is suddenly very light, and Lucius Malfoy’s arms catch her as everything turns black and she falls unconscious. 


	62. Chapter 62

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is one I’ve been working on probably since I started this story, and this is the longest chapter I’ve ever written for anything! Enjoy 😏

“Wake up, sweetling . . .”

Darcy moans softly, her cheek pressing against something very hard and very cold. The voice comes from above her, and she tries to push herself up, but her hands are bound tight behind her back. Her eyes snap open to find herself in a dark room, between two rows of tall and imperious looking shelves holding what look like dusty crystal balls. The shelves tower over her, seemingly no end in sight, and in the darkness, she can’t even see the ceiling above.

There is one thing quite visible in the darkness—Lucius Malfoy’s pale face looming in the darkness, almost like a floating head with his black robes, his face so like his son’s. The gray eyes, the pointed chin, the sleek white-blond hair.

Her eyes adjust to the darkness, the crystal balls giving off their dim bluish lighting, casting an eerie glow on Lucius’ face. She tries to remember the last time she’s seen him so close face to face, and can only come up with the time in Diagon Alley, after Gilderoy Lockhart had signed all of her new Defense Against the Dark Arts books and gave her a wet kiss on the cheek. Mr. Weasley and Lucius had fought that day, and nothing had made her happier than to see Mr. Weasley punch Lucius in the face.

She blushes, grateful for the lack of lighting, humiliated to be in this position—bound and lying on her stomach at the feet of Lucius Malfoy. How stupid could she have been? Why did she ever leave Grimmauld Place? What could have possibly possessed her to be so reckless?

“Where’s Harry?” she murmurs against the floor, looking up into his face.

“Let’s sit you up first,” Lucius says, in a polite and smooth tone. “A lady such as yourself shouldn’t be caught in such a compromising position.” He kneels down beside her, taking her by the upper arm with a suspicious gentility and he helps her into a sitting position. “There. That's better, isn’t it? Now, what were you asking?”

“Where’s Harry?”

An oily smile spreads across Lucius’ face. “He’s coming, I’m sure.” He gets back to his feet with a litheness and grace that Darcy wouldn’t expect of a man of his age, beginning to pace slowly back and forth, his voice cutting through the emptiness of the expansive room. “Truthfully, I didn’t think you would come. Who would have thought that vile, wretched little slug would be able to lure you right into a trap?”

Darcy falters, sitting stock still. “Wh—what?”

“Kreacher, of course.” Lucius stops his pacing, kneeling in front of her again and looking at her with a most curious expression. “Loyal to the Black family . . . most lucky for me, my wife and her sister are Blacks, and Kreacher has always harbored a certain fondness for Narcissa and Bellatrix that he . . . lacks in regards to your godfather.” A grin splits his face again, but the smile does not extend to his eyes. “Don’t look so shocked, sweetling. The house-elf was unable to tell us _everything_. But he did keep a remarkably sharp eye on you in particular, listening to you thrashing about in bed at night, crying out for your daddy, pacing the house restlessly. Yes, Miss Potter, I know a great deal about you.”

Darcy feels as if she’s been doused with icy cold water. Every hair on her body stands on end. “Why is Harry coming here?” she asks again, trying to keep her voice level.

“I was getting to that,” Lucius answers, gesturing to the countless crystal balls that surround them. “Your brother is . . . under the impression that your godfather is being held here by the Dark Lord.”

“Then why did you lure me here instead of Sirius?”

At this, Lucius actually laughs, and his laugh sends a thrill a horror through her. “All your brother would have had to do was run to Severus Snape to tell him his little dove took flight, that she was in trouble, and our plan would have been foiled. But Severus won’t care about Black being tortured, so . . . no interference.” He catches her glancing about, searching for others. “Didn’t I tell you, that as long as you behaved yourself, you need only deal with me? There is no one here now but us.”

Darcy looks around at all the glass balls. She looks over her shoulder at the one nearest her, squinting to try and see the contents within. It reminds her very much of the Pensieve, not quite liquid, but not solid—more of a smoke, a gas, floating inside the glass as if being blown by a gentle breeze, smoothly and fluidly. Each ball is set above a small plaque with initials and names, giving no further evidence to what they are.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Lucius muses. He takes her gently by the arm again to help her to her feet. She rises slowly, watching him, not feeling comfortable enough to look away. “Do you know what they are?”

She shakes her head.

“They’re prophecies,” he explains, tapping one of the plaques distractedly. “Who predicted it to whom, the subjects of said prophecy. Every prophecy ever made comes here, to the Hall of Prophecy.” Lucius gestures wildly about again, holding out his arms as if expecting applause for his showmanship.

“Are we still at the Ministry?”

“Deep in the bowels of the Ministry,” he says, craning his head back to look up at the vast blackness that is the ceiling. “In the Department of Mysteries.” Lucius looks quickly back into her face again. “Do you know why your brother is needed here?”

Darcy wishes she had answers to give him. Her lack of knowledge makes her blush, makes her feel only a child before him. “No.”

He looks genuinely surprised by this. “Are you lying to me, sweet?”

“No.”

“If you lie to me, there will be consequences.” Lucius searches her face for an answer when she fails to give one. Speaking more to himself, he murmurs, “You sweet, caged bird. No one telling you the truth, keeping secrets . . . do you want to know the truth now? Do you want to know what your friends have been keeping from you?”

“Are you going to give it to me?” Darcy wonders outloud, making the corners of his thin lips curl upwards. She cannot deny that to finally know the truth of things will be such a relief . . . to know what has been kept from her for nearly a year now . . . “I’m not lying to you.”

Despite his surprise, there’s an arrogance to Lucius that Darcy doesn’t think suits him well. It is not the careless, arrogant beauty that Gemma possess, nor Sirius in old photographs—it does nothing to enhance Lucius’ long and drawn, angled face. He steps close to her, towering over her. “Prophecies can only be retrieved by those about whom they are made.” A hand touches the small of her back and Lucius ushers her a few steps to the right, pointing at another plaque. “We need your brother to fetch this prophecy for us. You see, when someone touches a prophecy that isn’t regarding them . . . well, you know what happened to Broderick Bode, don’t you? So hands to yourself, little dove.”

The gears in her brain work faster than she’s ever known them to. _This_ is the weapon the Order has been guarding? A prophecy made about Harry? She looks closer at the plaque Lucius had gestured to, and sure enough, some initials are scrawled above the names _Dark Lord_ _and (?) Harry Potter_. What could be so important about a prophecy? Why would the Order and the Death Eaters go through so much trouble for _this_? What information could possibly be held within?

“Are you going to kill me?” Darcy whispers, afraid to look at him for the first time.

“Haven’t you been listening to me, pet?” Lucius asks, a bite of impatience in his tone, his polite facade wavering. “I told you no harm would come as long as you cooperate, and your brother, as well, when he arrives. You are my bargaining chip. The prophecy in tact . . . for _you_ in tact.” He chuckles dryly. “My colleagues can get a bit carried away at times, but you needn’t worry. I pride myself on my self-control.”

“Harry wouldn’t.” But she knows it’s a lie as soon as it leaves her lips. If it came down to it—if Harry had to make a choice between Darcy being kept alive and the prophecy, she knows exactly what he’d choose. Darcy can’t even blame him, for she would do the same thing in that position.

“Of course he would. And if he’s reluctant, then the sight of you being tortured in front of him surely will change his mind.” Lucius places his hands on her shoulders, standing just behind her. While no part of his body touches Darcy’s back, she can feel the heat radiating off him in waves, and his grip on her tightens as they continue to look at the prophecy in front of them. She supposes there is a certain beauty to them, one of mystery, an ethereal beauty that dances before her very eyes, mesmerizing her. To think that hidden information lies within, about her brother, is so curious . . . what were the Order so adamant about keeping secret?

As if reading her very thoughts, Lucius lowers his mouth to her ear again, his hair brushing against her skin. “Aren’t you the least bit curious what the prophecy is about?”

Darcy turns her head slowly, unsure if she wants to ask or not. Their faces are so close, and still Lucius’ fingers tighten upon her shoulder. She’s sure that he feels the scars upon her left one—how could he not?—but he says nothing. He meets her eyes, taking it for her answer. Lucius releases her shoulders, touching her back with hardly more than the tips of his fingers, as if to keep her in place, to keep her from running.

“The reason that your brother bears that scar upon his forehead . . .” Lucius looks longingly at the prophecy, the contents within still swirling lazily. “The reason the Dark Lord tried to kill him when he was just a baby . . . the reason your parents had to die . . . all of that information lies within the prophecy.”

Darcy’s breath hitches. Is it possible? It sounds crazy, absolutely crazy. This has to be some kind of dream—being here, with Lucius Malfoy, about to used as a hostage in order for the Death Eaters to retrieve such an unimportant looking item. “Why does Voldemort want the prophecy?”

Lucius makes a soft hissing sound. “Does it make you brave or foolish to say the name so boldly?”

Trying to keep calm, Darcy utters, “I suppose most would argue that it’s foolish.”

He laughs in her ear and it rings in her head, as well as inside the empty cathedral-like room. “You know, little dove, I have far more respect for you than I do for your brother.” Lucius stands up straight, taking a few steps back. Darcy turns around, trying without success to free her hands. She supposes she’s safe for the time being, as Lucius’ wand isn’t in his hand. “You look like a girl who would enjoy the finer things in life. You’re articulate and well-spoken, pretty. You are a talented witch, there is no denying that, and you have a brilliant mind when it comes down to it. Ignoring the subject matter, I was rather impressed by your article.”

Darcy blushes again, looking down at her feet.

“Don’t be shy, sweetling, there’s no reason to be embarrassed,” Lucius continues, sweeping over to her again. This time, his palm rests between her shoulder blades to usher her down the long aisle of prophecies. They walk slowly, each of his long strides met by Darcy’s equally long one. “Your friends . . . the Order of the Phoenix, as I believe they call themselves, certainly don’t see you as I do . . . as _we_ do . . . what a waste, see, to hide such things from you. It frustrates you, doesn’t it? It makes you angry?”

It does, but she refuses to say so.

“I know how you must be feeling, sweet.” Lucius frowns, looking very sympathetic. Darcy clenches her jaw, still walking along at his side, turning right when they reach the end of the aisle. “A waste, if you ask me. But me . . . I think you could be rather useful, if you stop writing silly, nonsensical articles about werewolves. That will have to stop, but . . . one step at a time.”

“I’m not interested,” Darcy retorts coldly.

“No?” Lucius asks, with a deep curiosity in his tone. “You could be one of us. No secrets, no exclusion, no hiding. You could be free to walk the streets of London, free to come and go from Hogwarts as you please. And, if you were interested, I’m sure we could arrange a match for you . . . your blood isn’t pure, but that’s nothing when you’re Darcy Potter.”

Darcy swallows loudly. “I’m not interested.”

“Then, if it comes down to it,” he sneers, picking up his pace. “You will suffer the same fate as your brother. He should be here shortly . . .”

She assumes they’re going to keep walking straight, but Lucius pulls her sharply down another aisle on his left. “Why do you want the prophecy? You never answered my question.”

“I didn’t, did I?” he hums, steps quickening further still. Darcy matches him stride for stride, still working at the cords that bind her hands behind her back. It’s fruitless—the cords are so tight that she’ll never be able to break free, and so thick that it will be impossible to wear them down without something sharp. “The prophecy contains the information necessary for the Dark Lord to understand how to kill your brother . . . that prophecy is the key to everything.”

As the prophecies above them cast a brighter light than before, Darcy looks around desperately for a way to escape. As far as she can see, she can’t see any doors, nor does there seem  
to be anywhere to hide. She can’t see any other Death Eaters, but she’s quite sure they’re around somewhere. She slows down just barely, just enough that Lucius doesn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. The eerie light cast from the prophecies throw his black robe into rippling light, the color so dark it’s like he’s wearing nothing at all, only an entrance into the void. Darcy looks down towards a pocket, wondering if she dares try to make a grab for his wand. She clenches her jaw, trying to see how much reach she has with her wrists bound so tightly; however, if she were to have hold of her wand, she might be able to slip it into her waistband with only minimal effort, but she’d have to make sure Lucius doesn’t realize . . .

Lucius reaches into his pocket to withdraw his wand. As he takes it out, Darcy hears something clink against it—wood on wood—and she sees the flash of another wand inside— _her_ wand. Her heart begins to race again. How could she possibly slide her wand from his pocket without him noticing? She’d have to turn around completely, reach into his robes pocket with some difficulty. She’s only going to have one chance to do it . . . one chance, and if she fails . . . she could run away, but she doesn’t know this place, and without a wand, she doubts she’d get very far, especially with his own wand in his hand . . .

If she doesn’t do something now, Darcy fears her courage will escape her. She’ll only have a few seconds, and Darcy mentally prepares herself, eyes fixed on his pocket. As Lucius opens his mouth to speak again, holding his wand in front of him, Darcy takes care to step on the back of his robes. He stumbles, and as he falls forward, Darcy pivots and falls with him, her fingertips brushing the tip of her wand. With her very tops of her long index and middle fingers, she grabs it as tight as she can, amazed when it slips right out of his pocket and he crashes to the ground, Darcy beside him, holding her wand behind her.

“I’m sorry!” she breathes, trying to look as panicked as she can. “I’m so sorry! It’s so dark in here—I couldn’t see!”

In any other situation, seeing Lucius Malfoy fall onto his face would be something that would make her laugh out loud. As he reaches for the wand that’s fallen from his hand, Darcy works furiously with her own behind her back, getting a firmer grip on it and tucking it into the back of her pants, covering it with her shirt.

_Holy shit_ , she thinks, trying not to betray any emotion, any giveaway that it might have been intentional. _I did it! Wait until Gemma hears about how I pickpocketed Lucius Malfoy with my hands behind my back._

Lucius pushes himself up to his feet, brushing off the front of his robes, his jaw clenched tight. “Idiot girl,” he mumbles, looking down at her with a cold expression on his face. He grabs roughly at her arm, pulling her to her feet again and nearly nose to nose with him. “Are you trying to make a fool of me?”

“It was an accident,” Darcy whispers, forcing herself to cry. The tears come so easily, and Lucius takes a deep, steadying breath. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t see.”

“If you’re unable to walk a straight line, little dove,” Lucius begins, clearly trying hard not to lose his temper, “then I’ll bind your ankles and carry you instead. Would you like that?”

“No,” she says, her body shaking all over. “I wouldn’t.”

“Then _walk_. We’re almost there.”

“Where are we going?”

“Out of sight for a moment.”

Adrenaline surges through her veins as she continues to follow Lucius down the aisle. Her eyes adjust again as the lighting changes, and her adrenaline and triumphant, victorious feeling turns to stark fear at the sight of multiple people at the end of the corridor. He seems to sense her fear as they begin to her and laugh, eleven masked Death Eaters in all, mocking her in high-pitched voices and crooning her name, beckoning her forward with curled index fingers. Darcy’s heart hammers in her chest and she freezes, but Lucius grabs her arm and shoves her forcefully towards them. She slams into one of the Death Eater’s hard and broad chest, and hands touch her arms and her shoulders and her back, pulling her from one to the other. They’re all rough touches and rough hands, save for one softer hand, a smaller hand, with slender fingers and sharp nails—a woman under the mask.

The Death Eater who’d caught her against his chest presses her close, laughing through his mask in her ear, his hands beginning to wander greedily. Darcy squirms, catching Lucius’ attention again, who sneers at him, scrunching his nose. “Have you forgotten yourself, Nott?” he snarls at the Death Eater holding her. “Have you no sense of dignity? Standing there fondling and groping a twenty-year-old girl? Don’t touch her, and don’t harm her. We need her.”

“Not like she’d like it, anyway,” the woman jeers, and her voice is like nails on a chalkboard. Dark hair frames the mask on her face, wild and untamed, looking to have not been brushed for weeks or months. “Come _here_ , darling . . . let me look at your pretty little face . . .”

“Don’t harm her, Bellatrix!” Lucius snaps, sounding truly angry for the first time all night.

“I’m only _looking_ ,” she spits back, pulling Darcy from Nott’s chest and gripping her face with a less than gentle touch. Darcy looks into the mask of Bellatrix Lestrange, looking into the dark eyes that are the only part of her face clearly visible, dark eyes that are so like—

_Gemma_! What are the chances that Gemma’s parents are here and masked right now? What are the chances they would allow harm to come to their daughter’s friend? How much do they know of Gemma and Darcy’s friendship? Enough that they might help Darcy, if she can even pick them out? She doesn’t even know what Gemma’s parents sound like, let alone look like, and how could she find that out? She isn’t going to just ask if there’s a Mr. and Mrs. Smythe in the audience.

“Maybe she’d take better to Greyback. You like werewolves, don’t you, girl?” Bellatrix says breathily, her hot and foul breath hitting Darcy full in the mask through the holes in her mask. “What’s he been up to, anyway? I’m sure if we told him there’s a young girl waiting to be defiled, he’d waste no time.”

Darcy trembles violently at the thought, making Bellatrix tilt her head back and laugh loudly.

“If you are incapable of watching over a hostage, then give her back,” Lucius says over Bellatrix’s laughter. She pushes Darcy back over to Nott, who leers down at her. “I want this to go as painlessly and smoothly as possible . . . if I come back in a minute and find that any harm has been done this girl—”

“What do you care?” Nott asks gruffly in Darcy’s ear. He presses Darcy’s back to him, and she closes her eyes, more afraid right now that he’ll feel her wand in her pants. “If you want her, just say so—none of this passive business, Lucius . . .”

Lucius sighs, frustrated, his eyes flicking over the eleven Death Eaters. “I want her unharmed, and untouched. Have you never seen a woman before, Nott?”

Nott scoffs.

“Everyone with me—except you two,” Lucius instructs them, raising his eyebrows at Nott and Darcy. “Nott, are you certain you’re capable of controlling yourself? Or shall I task someone else with keeping watch over our sweet girl?”

“Let me do it!” Bellatrix gasps excitedly, attempting to pry Darcy from Nott’s reluctant arms. “Oh, let _me_!”

“Leave her with Nott. If he proves himself less than the man we think he is, then you can have her, Bellatrix.” Lucius dismisses the other Death Eaters and Darcy tries to track their progress. He stops Nott, however, stepping close to him, ignoring Darcy completely. Lucius’ voice is soft and, frankly, _scary_. “Perhaps you have forgotten the duty we men have towards young girls such as Miss Potter. If I trusted any of _them_ —” he jerks his head over her shoulder to indicate the other Death Eaters—“not to hurt her, _you_ wouldn’t have her. Make sure Potter doesn’t see her until I say so . . . don’t come until I call you . . . it may be that he’ll give us the prophecy and not realize we have her. Now go, get out of my sight.”

Despite Nott hurrying off away from Lucius Malfoy, clinging to Darcy’s upper arm with frightening strength, she can’t help but feel this is the best possible situation. It will be easy to both distract and surprise Nott by freeing herself and Stunning him. But maybe it best to just wait for a few minutes . . . until she’s sure Harry is coming . . . once she sees Harry, she’ll free herself, but how long would that be?

Their positions seemed to have been predetermined, for Nott seems to know exactly where he’s taking her. He breathes heavily beneath his mask, hurrying her along rows and rows of prophecies, the echoing footsteps of the others making it seem like there are hundreds of people inside. Finally, Nott pulls her into a shadowy nook between two rows of prophecies. She looks around to see if anyone else is in view, but she sees no one—unless they’re hidden very well, Darcy is alone with Nott, or as alone as they’re going to get.

They’re hardly still for a second before Darcy can feel Nott pressing his front to her again. She tenses as the cool metal of his mask touches the crook of her neck, mingled with his stiflingly warm breath, rubbing his face on her skin. Screaming internally, Darcy can’t tell if she’s more afraid, offended, or absolutely disgusted by his behavior. The knowledge that her wand is safely stashed away makes her feel braver, but she’ll have to turn around and away from him if she wants to free herself.

Darcy doesn’t move for a minute as she thinks, allowing (albeit reluctantly) Nott to continue nuzzling her neck, until she feels him rub against the small of her back, very close to where the tip of her wand is. Inhaling deeply, hoping that she will be able to leave here alive and immediately dive into a hot bath to scrub every trace of Nott off her skin, Darcy twirls in Nott’s arms so she’s chest to chest with him instead. She looks up into his bright blue eyes, her chest heaving against his.

Gathering as much dignity as she can muster, Darcy stands up straight as Nott touches her arms with a surprising gentleness. “Are you going to take your mask off, at least?” she whispers against the mouth holes.

“You little minx,” Nott growls, and without even thinking, it seems, his lifts his mask. His face repulses her—he’s far older than she thought he’d be, his hair completely gray and on its way to becoming white. There are deep lines in his face, white bristles on his face. Darcy closes her eyes and presses herself against him, his hands fumbling with her arms, touching every inch of revealed skin he can find. It’s revolting and degrading, but Nott is distracted enough not to notice Darcy working her wand out of her waistband slowly and carefully.

She almost vomits as something hard rubs firmly against her inner thigh. Darcy recoils instinctively, but Nott grabs her and pushes her hard against the wall. She holds her breath as her wand threatens to slip from her pants, but she pins it against the wall, keeping it in place with her hands.

“You’re not bad looking,” he breathes against her neck, rubbing the tip of his large nose up and down her pulse. “I’m in half a mind to marry you to my son.”

“Yeah?” she rasps, pulling her wand out of her pants as Nott rubs against her thigh again, shuddering. “I’ve met Theodore, and I’m not interested.”

“Not like you’ll have much say in it,” Nott sighs. Part of Darcy is amazed—despite the circumstances—that rubbing up against her thigh can give a person such pleasure. The other part of her is absolutely disgusted. “Maybe I’ll just take you for myself.”

“Yeah?” Darcy asks softly again, arching her back in order to position her wand correctly. It only makes Nott groan, but she’s able to dig the tip of her wand into the cords around her wrists, holding tightly onto the thicker part of the wand in both hands.

“What’re you squirming for?” Nott asks suddenly, tensing and narrowing his eyes at her. Darcy’s heart flutters, her hands shaking, praying the spell will not cut open her wrists. “Stay still, girl.”

“I can’t help it,” she breathes, sighing into his ear, making him shudder again. “It feels so good.” Darcy rolls her hips, rubbing against him hard, and Nott lets an audible groan escape his lips. At the same time, her own breathy voice muffled by his whining, Darcy says, “ _Diffindo_.”

Nott doesn’t even notice, his hands on her hips, fingers digging into her skin to the point of near pain. The cords around her wrists are severed, but before Darcy can do anything more, she hears voices and freezes, ignoring Nott’s roaming hands completely. The voices are faint, as if coming from the other side completely from the room, growing in volume, as if they’d been whispering before. How had she not heard them? Hadn’t she been listening? After all, it had been difficult enough with her heartbeat throbbing in her ears. And the voices aren’t coming from the Death Eaters . . . in fact, she thinks she recognizes one of the voices as . . .

“Neville?” Darcy breathes to herself as Nott extends his fingers to cup one of her breasts. That’s the final straw for her—with her wand in her right hand, she clamps her left down upon Nott’s mouth as he groans again. His eyes go wide in surprise, and Darcy forces the tip of her wand into his doughy stomach and thinks as hard as she can, _Petrificus Totalus_!

Nott immediately goes rigid, his hands falling to his sides, blinking rapidly as he means to fall backwards. Darcy catches him, slowly lowering him to the ground and keeping him tucked away in the shadows. As she hears Lucius’ voice and Bellatrix’s ugly mocking voice ringing from where she’d heard Neville’s voice, Darcy goes to run towards them, but stops at the last second and looks down at Nott, lying flat on his back and helpless. She puts her boot over the fingers that he’d tried to touch her with, pressing hard. Unable to scream or squirm or move away, Darcy presses against his knuckles harder, as hard as she possibly can, wanting to break his hand for trying to touch her. There is pain and fear in Nott’s eyes, still able to move and watch and see. And then, there’s a crack, and Nott’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull, but it satisfies Darcy and she moves away from him.

As Lucius continues to talk, giving Darcy an idea of where they are, she creeps wide around, wanting to come up behind them. All the Death Eaters seem to be crowded around them, and her long legs carry her gracefully and silently through the aisles. She looks up at all the prophecies, thinking still, as she approaches the scene.

“Fine, Potter. Then perhaps we can reach a deal,” Lucius says smoothly. “Your sister, untouched and unhurt—in perfect condition, really—in exchange for the prophecy.”

“My . . . Darcy?” Harry falters, and Darcy tries to catch his attention as she peeks around a shelf, but he’s blocked by the wall of Death Eaters. “Darcy’s . . . ?”

Bellatrix repeats his words in a high-pitched voice, laughing to the ceiling again.

“In perfect health,” Lucius assures him in a far more condescending voice than he’d used around her. “Nott! Bring the girl!”

It’s an anti-climactic moment; Darcy can’t help but to smile slightly as nothing happens. She inches closer, nearly crawling down another aisle of prophecies, peeking around the corner again, amazed at what she’s seeing. Harry isn’t alone, and nor is he just with Neville—Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Luna Lovegood have come, as well, and Darcy’s heart swells with love and affection for every single one of them. In Harry’s hand is a single, small, glass ball—the prophecy he’d been lured here to retrieve, and Darcy feels herself beginning to sweat out of fear and anxiety. Her joy at seeing Harry again for what feels like the first time is years is overshadowed by a feeling of impending doom.

“ _Nott_!” Lucius shouts, looking to his left and right. When he looks over his shoulder, Darcy pulls out of his line of sight, holding her breath. “For the love of—I knew I shouldn’t have left her with him! Give me the prophecy and you and your sister walk out of here with your lives, Potter!”

Darcy sticks her head out again, waving one of her arms up, hoping to catch someone’s attention. She sees Harry’s eyes flick towards her for just a minute before looking away, likely attributing her to a trick of the light. When Lucius turns to his Death Eaters, his back towards Harry, arguing over who’s going to go fetch Nott and Darcy, Harry looks at her again with the most relieved and surprised expression she’s ever seen. As one of the Death Eaters runs off to check on Nott, she tries desperately to mime to him, tries desperately to make herself understood. She points at the prophecies on the shelves surrounding her, drawing a line from them to the floor, all the while mouthing _smash_!

Harry inclines his head just slightly as Lucius turns back around, and Darcy knows he’s understood. She continues to watch, Lucius attempting to explain the prophecy to Harry, in less detail perhaps than he’d explained it to her, and she notices every little movement, every indication that Harry is making his friends somehow aware of the plan.

“Gone!” shouts the Death Eater running down the row adjacent to Darcy. She crouches down, hidden in the shadows and behind the many prophecies. “Gone!” Someone is bringing up the rear—Nott, cradling his broken fingers in his hand.

“How—?” Lucius starts, fumbling in his pockets, coming to the realization that he’s lost Darcy’s wand. Darcy can’t see his face, but she’s sure it’s one of rage. “Spread out! Find that girl—she can’t have gone far!”

But before anyone can move, Harry shouts, “Now!” and the air is filled with the sounds of “ _Reducto_!” and the smashing of prophecies and the crashing of shelves and the cries of Death Eaters are possibly the sweetest sounds in the world right now. Darcy can hear voices all around her, rising from the smashed prophecies, and splintered wood rains down upon her as another shelf collapses, and within seconds, Harry takes her hand and pulls her to her feet, running down the long aisle towards a door that Darcy hadn’t seen before, their friends trailing behind them.

“What are you doing here?” he shouts over the cacophony of noise, gripping Darcy’s hand tight, his wand and the prophecy held tight in his left hand, and pulling her down another row. “Why aren’t you at Grimmauld Place?”

Darcy waves her wand, shielding she and Harry from a heavy looking shelf that threatens to smash them. It bounces off the Shield Charm, hitting an approaching Death Eater full in the chest and knocking him back with a grunt. “I’m rescuing you!” she tells him, adrenaline coursing through her again. “I thought you were in trouble!”

“I thought _Sirius_ was in trouble!” A Death Eater cuts them off, nearly stumbling into view. Darcy hurls a hex at them, sending them flying backwards. “Nice one—this way!”

“There’s the door!” comes Hermione’s voice from behind her. Darcy looks ahead; sure enough, there’s a door left slightly ajar. She releases Harry’s sweaty hand, long legs taking her to the door first. She grips the door, her heart sinking when she realizes that they’ve split up—Harry, Hermione, and Neville cross the threshold, but Ron, Ginny, and Luna are nowhere to be found, and with two Death Eaters sprinting towards the door, Darcy hesitates. Hermione grabs her by the wrist and pulls her into the room, shutting the door with a spell.

“What about the others?” Darcy asks, a stitch in her side. Harry is still looking at her in wonder, as if he’s never seen anything so amazing in his life, and as if he can’t believe she’s actually real.

“They must have gone the wrong way,” Hermione replies, looking frightened.

“Darcy, how did you get here?” Harry asks quickly, bewildered, his bright green eyes fixed upon her. “How did you know this was the room I was coming to?”

“I didn’t,” she pants, standing up straight. “I got off the lift at the Department of Mysteries, and then Lucius Malfoy found me, and . . . when I woke up, I was here.” Darcy looks around, her eyes feeling assaulted by the bright light within the room. Instead of prophecies surrounding her, there are clocks of every shape and size and make on the shelves all around the room, and as the pounding of her heart begins to quiet and lessen, her head is the one assaulted by the ticking, ticking, ticking, ticking, ticking. The most peculiar thing is on a desk right beside Darcy: a bell jar, where a beautiful hummingbird flits its wings, tapping once at the glass with its long beak—but Darcy frowns as the hummingbird begins to shrink, and its feathers lose their color, and the bird sinks to the bottom of the jar, where a cracked egg seals itself, the fetus inside.

“Someone’s coming!” Neville moans, dancing nervously on his feet.

“Let’s get out of here,” Hermione adds, racing to another door at the far end of the room.

Something or someone thuds hard against the door behind them, and Harry hisses at them all to hide. Harry dives under a desk, Darcy pulls Neville down beside her, and Hermione crouches underneath another desk, breathing heavily, wand held at he ready. As someone bangs against the door again, Darcy turns slightly. “Good to see you, Neville,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” he says, laughing nervously. “Good to see you, too.”

With a crash, the door flies open and smashes one of the grandfather clocks against the wall. Darcy, peering through the few inches of desk. With a quick glance at Harry, Darcy sticks her wand around the corner of the desk, and Harry follows her lead. “ _Stupefy_!”

The Death Eater Harry had been aiming at is thrown back into the wall, but Darcy’s spell misses. Chaos ensues as spells shoot from everyone’s wand, Neville aims a Disarming Charm and Harry’s wand goes flying along with the Death Eater’s. Hermione Stuns him as the Death Eater reaches for his wand, and he toppled with a crash right into the bell jar, his head now becoming smaller, smaller, smaller, his hair shrinking back into his head—

“ _Gross_!” Darcy groans, looking at Harry. “I hope you have a plan.”

“My plan was to save Sirius,” he answers breathlessly. “Where were you earlier? I stuck my head in the fire, Kreacher said you were out on a mission—”

“I was sleeping! You know I’m a heavy sleeper!” Darcy snaps, hearing heavy thuds and crashes and shouts coming from behind a wall. “Look . . .” She casts a wary glance around the room, avoiding looking at the grotesque scene in the bell jar, where a baby’s head sits atop the full grown Death Eater’s body. “Sirius is at home . . . he’s bound to check on me soon, and Remus—Remus should be home tonight—soon—they’ll come, Harry, the Order _will_ come for us—”

“You’ve been living with Sirius Black since you disappeared?” Neville asks, bewildered.

“Yes, I—that’s beside the point! Harry, we have to get that prophecy out of here—give it to me, and I’ll bring it back home, safe—”

“Are you _mad_?” Harry shouts, running a hand through his hair. He looks down at the prophecy. “What if you can’t get back?”

“Do you trust me? We’re running out of time—”

Harry grabs hold of Darcy’s left hand and slams the prophecy into it. “Go,” he says quietly, and Darcy notices that he’s trembling. “And don’t come back, all right?”

Darcy scoffs, wrapping her fingers around the small, cool ball in her hand. “I’m coming back!”

“No, you’re not!”

“I’ll be back.”

“Darcy—”

She goes to Disapparate, but nothing happens—she spins on the spot, losing balance, dizzy. Hermione catches her before she falls. “I can’t Disapparate!” Darcy swears loudly. “Okay . . . plan B . . . we run for it.”

“Great plan,” Harry concedes, taking the prophecy back and looks around wildly, pointing towards a closed door. “This way, come on!”

“I hope you know where you’re going,” Darcy hisses at him, because she wouldn’t be able to find her way back if she tried.

She follows Harry in through the door, finding herself in a darkened office, cluttered and cramped with four of them in there. She gropes around in the darkness for a moment, but the door bursts open just as Hermione closes it, and as two Death Eaters raise their wands, Darcy conjures another Shield Charm that isn’t able to block the jinx that knocks Harry, Neville, and Hermione off their feet. Leaping over the desk that Neville had turned over while being knocked off his feet, Darcy sends a Stunning Spell at one of the Death Eaters. He blocks it with ease, but before he has time to recover, Harry shouts, “ _Petrificus Totalus_!” and the Death Eater tenses, stiff as a board, and falls backwards.

Darcy ducks as the second Death Eater fires a jet of green light at her. She flattens herself against the overturned desk, for a moment the wind knocked out of her at the thought of how close the curse had come to her. Before she has a chance to fight back, there’s a flash of purple, and Hermione—still half-standing and dazed against a bookshelf—lets out a small noise of surprise as flames go right through her chest. She crumples to the floor and Darcy shouts, crawling over to her. Neville follows, but as soon as he’s in view, the Death Eater swings a kick and Darcy hears Neville’s nose break from the impact with a sickening crunch.

Harry quickly incapacitates the Death Eater and drops beside Hermione, opposite Darcy, sweating frantically. Neville reaches for Hermione’s wrist; Darcy smooths her hair back, trying to remember the last time she’d felt so afraid . . .

“I feel a pulse,” Neville says, his speech affected by his broken nose. Darcy turns to look at him—one hand is still over his nose, gushing blood. Beside him, on the floor, are the remains of his broken wand and Darcy feels a pang of sympathy towards him.

“Neville, I can fix it,” she rasps, her lungs on fire. “Stay still.” Darcy touches the tip of her wand to Neville’s nose and he doesn’t even flinch, looking her straight in the eyes. “ _Episkey_!”

Neville’s face contorts with pain for a brief moment, and then he feels his straightened nose and smiles weakly. “Thanks.”

“Thank Remus. He’s fixed two of my broken noses already.” Darcy looks over Hermione’s limp body to Harry again. “We have to get her out of here. We’ve got to find everyone, and we can bring them home until things calm down. How far is the exit?”

“Not far,” Harry answers, holding tight to Hermione’s hand. “There’s a circular room right outside this one, but then we have to find the right door. There’s—there’s all these doors—”

“Okay.” Darcy doesn’t quite understand what this means, and can’t quite picture what he’s saying with her mind so busy and exhausted. It’s getting hard to think, and with the adrenaline wearing off, Darcy’s body begins to ache. “Okay. Neville, you carry Hermione. You’re stronger than me, and I’m the better fighter—no offense.” She looks down at her watch to find that the second hand has stopped moving, the time frozen at 9:12.

“What are the chances Lupin’s realized you’re missing?” Harry asks pleadingly, as if he already knows the answer.

“If we’re lucky, he’ll already be on his way down here.” Darcy bites down on her lip, trying to think, think, think. “But when have we ever been so lucky?”

“We’ve gotten lucky a few times . . . let’s hope it carries over.” Harry helps Hermione up as Neville crouches. Darcy grabs her legs, draping her around Neville’s shoulders. He takes a moment to adjust and Harry takes one last, long look at Hermione’s face. Harry makes a grab for Hermione’s wand, forcing it into Neville’s hand. “Okay. The others. Let’s go.”

Darcy gets to her feet. “You first, Harry, you know where you’re going. I’ll watch Neville’s back.”

The three of them creep out of the office, the baby-headed Death Eater sobbing loudly, causing mayhem and destruction. Harry leads them through another door off the clock-room, into a pitch black corridor. They follow it for just a moment until they emerge in a large, circular room, just as Harry said. The door behind Darcy slams shut and she jumps, just as the floor gives a quake and the walls begin to spin. It disorients Darcy, and panic begins to settle in again. When Harry doesn’t move towards a door right away, Darcy steps up to him and asks, “You do know which door to go through, right?”

Another crash prevents Harry from answering, and they all look to their right, where Ron, Ginny, and Luna all come toppling out of a door. Darcy races to them, followed by Harry and Neville. Ron gropes at Darcy shirt, grabbing at it and nearly pulling her down to the floor with him.

“Ron—!”

“Hey, Darcy,” he says lightly, and up close, his eyes look unfocused. “You’ve done your hair different . . .”

“It’s the same as it always is—”

“Listen . . . Darcy . . . oh, I’m so glad you’re here . . .” He giggles, throwing Darcy off guard. She pries his fingers off her shirt, grabbing his hands and attempting to pull him to his feet. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. “Harry—! Harry, you look all funny . . .”

“Darcy, can you fix broken ankles?” Harry asks quickly, ignoring Ron completely.

Darcy turns towards the new problem; Ginny is propped against the wall, clutching at her leg and grimacing. Her ankle is twisted in an awkward manner, painful looking. Her fingers hover above Ginny’s ankle, and she wishes she had a better answer. “I don’t think,” Darcy frowns apologetically. “I’m sorry. Luna, you’ve got to help Ginny—”

“It’s only my ankle!” Ginny protests angrily, but after a failed attempt at standing, allows Luna to help her stand steadily.

Harry understands his duty right away. He helps a glossy-eyed Ron to his feet. “Darcy, you’ll have to watch our backs.”

“I’m already on it. Let’s get out of here.” She points towards the nearest door. “Let’s try this door.”

No one protests, and Darcy opens it, allowing everyone to make it over the threshold with their injured counterparts, holding her wand up and prepared to defend her friends. It’s slow going, and just as the last person enters the room, Darcy slams the door as Bellatrix sprints towards her.

“ _Colloportus_!” Harry shouts, sealing the door behind Darcy.

Darcy looks around, breathing shallow breathes. There are several doors on the opposite wall, but that isn’t the most pressing issue for her. There are tanks on tables in here, with something slimy inside, floating and resting in the green water. She takes a few steps closer, narrowing her ears, stumbling backwards with a shriek as she realizes what they are. “Brains!” she says stupidly, but this must not be new information to anyone else, for they don’t quite share the same reaction.

Except for Ron, who laughs absently, pointing at the tank with his wand. “Brains, Darcy! Look . . . _Accio Brain_!”

She watches the scene as if in slow motion—a brain leaps from the green water inside the tank, tentacles unraveling from the brain as it soars past Darcy’s face to Ron. As out of it as Ron is, Darcy is slightly surprised he’s capable of catching it in his hands, but this is a huge mistake. The tentacles immediately seem to sense a body, wrapping tight around Ron’s lax arms, his chest, and Ron begins to panic.

“I don’t like this . . . no . . . I don’t . . . _stop_!”

It reminds Darcy of the Devil’s Snare all those years ago, and she can almost feel the crushing pressure on her chest and arms, her waist and her face as the plant had gagged her, as if hoping to crush her skull. It takes her a minute to snap out of  it, working with Harry to try and sever the tentacles, to keep the brain from suffocating him, but it’s difficult with Ginny shouting at her and Neville panicking and Luna looking at her with wide, observant, and vacant eyes.

A jet of red light soars inches from Darcy’s face, hitting Ginny square in the face and leaving her unconscious. Luna is next, and both girls slump against the closed door they’d come through. Neville attempts to stun the five or so Death Eaters that trip over the threshold, but with Hermione on his shoulders still, it proves difficult. The tentacles still have tight hold of Ron, even as Harry tries every different spell he knows. Darcy dodges another Stunning Spell.

Desperate, Darcy takes hold of Harry’s shoulder, conjuring up a Shield Charm that blocks a jet of green light. “Harry, it’s us they want,” she tells him, sending another Stunning Spell at a Death Eater and sighing in relief when he’s sent flying back into the wall. “We need to get them away from everyone.”

Without even indicating he’s heard her, Harry holds the prophecy up high over his head. And then, without warning, he sprints away, off towards the open door the Death Eaters had come through, Darcy hot on his heels, prepared to block any spells aimed at them. But the Death Eaters, now following her and her brother, don’t fight, seemingly afraid to break the prophecy. Through the door and Darcy missteps, not realizing there’d be any steps at all.

Tumbling down the steepest set of stone steps she’s ever seen, every time she hits the corner of a stair, it’s brutal pain surging through her stiff and already aching body. Harry follows, slightly more gracefully, the prophecy still held high so as not to break it. Darcy falls all the way to the ground, lying on her stomach and unable to move. Nothing feels broken, but blood is leaking into her eyes, and when they do flutter open painfully, the only thing in this room besides the massive amount of stairs is a dais, upon which rests a stone archway, a tattered black curtain that must be a hundred years old draped over it, blowing gently as if feeling a breeze that Darcy hasn’t noticed.

For a brief second, Darcy has a moment of clarity looking at the archway, and even over the laughing and jeering of the half dozen or so Death Eaters making their way towards she and Harry, Darcy thinks she can hear someone calling her name. She isn’t sure if it’s someone actually speaking in a low whisper, because the room is so loud and full of echoing voices, or the voice may be inside her own head. It’s so quiet—so, so quiet, and she doesn’t know why the name springs to her lips, as if she knows without having to hear more than a whisper.

“Dad?” she croaks, hardly able to speak. If she could just reach the archway . . . just to know for certain . . . someone must be behind the veil . . . they’re calling for her . . . “Daddy?”

There’s something strange about the archway, but Darcy knows—no, she _feels_ , for she doesn’t know for certain what’s hidden by the veil—that happiness is just on the other side. Her father is there, waiting for her, calling to her, it has to be him . . . if she could only get closer . . .

The sounds of the battle around her fade until all she can hear is her pulse and the whispering of someone who must be James. The world around her is gone—it’s just her and her father now, crooning her name, or is she imagining it? No, no, James is definitely behind the archway, but why won’t he come out to help her? Doesn’t he know she needs help?

“Daddy . . .” Darcy gasps, only just realizing that she’s crying. Her cheeks are wet with not just blood, but tears. She takes a deep breath and pushes herself up, dragging herself a few inches towards the dais. Before she can get much further, however, a hand tangles in the back of her hair, pulling her sharply backwards. The sounds of battle resume and the whispering stops, and Darcy cries out in anguish and in pain.

“Someone clip your wings, little dove?” Lucius snarls in her ear, pulling her up again so she’s kneeling before him, facing Harry with her back to Lucius. Neville is here—when had he gotten here?—sobbing on the ground and shaking violently, Bellatrix’s wand pointed down at him. Death Eaters surround them, and Harry still holds the prophecy tight to his chest. Lucius pants behind her. “You think you’re clever, don’t you, pet? Stealing your wand from my pocket?”

Darcy doesn’t answer, and she doesn’t really have the energy to. Lucius touches the side of her head with the tip of his wand and she closes her eyes. She isn’t afraid—not now, not in this position. She knows that Harry will not allow her to be killed, and that’s what makes her nervous.

“You’ve had your fun, Potter, now give me the prophecy . . .” Lucius growls, digging his wand harder into Darcy’s head. “The prophecy, and your sister and the boy live.”

Darcy opens her eyes again to find Harry beginning to hold out the prophecy. “Don’t, Harry,” she whispers, and he hesitates. “There are worse things than death. Don’t do it, Harry, please.”

Neville echoes this sentiment, but there’s an apologetic look in Harry’s face that Darcy mislikes. Harry sighs, extending his arm to offer Lucius the prophecy. Lucius pushes Darcy roughly away from him and she collapses, watching as his pale hand hovers above it—

And then a jet of red light hits Lucius in the chest before he can take the prophecy. The Death Eaters all look up at the top of the amphitheater-like arrangement, and Darcy turns her head to see Tonks sprinting towards her, Darcy’s wand in her hand. But she’s not the only one who’s appeared—Emily is already locked in a duel with a Death Eater, looking dangerously angry; Lupin and Sirius are dueling side by side, exchanging teasing criticisms and genuine remarks of praise; Mad-Eye Moody fires hex after hex after hex at another Death Eater; and Kingsley is dueling two at once, his wand flashing quicker than Darcy’s ever seen anyone’s move before. Darcy can hardly believe it—they’re _saved_ , the Order came— _Sirius_ came . . .

Tonks drops to Darcy’s side, and unsure of what comes over her, Darcy laughs. Tonks smiles nervously, cocking an eyebrow, looking at Darcy as if unsure she’s all mentally there. “I’ve never been so glad to see you in my entire life,” Darcy confesses, and even this makes Tonks chuckle.

“The feeling’s mutual.” The smile quickly fades from Tonks’ face as she throws up a hurried Shield Charm to protect the both of them from an oncoming Killing Curse. “You need to move. Can you walk?”

“I need help.”

“Yeah, you look pretty banged up. Hang on, I’m going to help you.” Tonks gets a firm grip on Darcy’s forearms, helping her to feet amidst the ongoing duels, walking Darcy quickly over to the stairs. “Listen, you’ve got to get out of here. Can you get up the steps?”

“I think so—I just—I need to sit for a—”

Tonks blocks another incoming spell as if it’s second nature. “Listen, no time—go hide, or fight.”

“I’ll fight.”

She grins, and for a moment, all trace of panic is gone from Tonks’ face. She holds out Darcy’s wand in her open palm, and Darcy grabs at it. “All right.”

With another surge of adrenaline, the pain momentarily leaves Darcy as Tonks runs away to intervene in an uneven duel with Sirius. Darcy tries to find Lupin amongst everyone, but her vision is slightly blurry, and she looks to her right, seeing Harry and Neville on the ground, talking quietly and quickly. Taking a deep and steadying breath, Darcy finds the first available Death Eater and begins to fire spell after spell—jinxes, hexes, curses—the first words and spells that come to her mind after seven years worth of education. She’s not quite as good as she would like, but she’s able to hold her own, blocking spells from hitting her, sidestepping others, barely avoiding some by mere inches. Darcy can’t remember ever dueling in such a dangerous setting, a life or death match, where the stakes are so high. It’s nerve wracking, and Darcy finds there’s much less time to think while locked in combat. Everything seems so instinctual, no time to consider, only a split second to determine her next move. It gets her heart pumping, and slowly her head begins to clear again and Darcy Stuns the Death Eater she's dueling with, moving onto the next one.

“All right, Darcy?” Emily shouts, as Darcy stumbles up to her, producing Shield Charm after Shield Charm to allow Emily to continually and rapidly fire hexes at her opponent.

Darcy smiles at Emily, drained of her energy, as the Death Eater collapses suddenly, unmoving and limp. “All right,” she breathes.

“We’ve got to get the others,” Emily says, looking around to make sure no one is closing in on them. “Where is everyone?”

“I don’t know,” Darcy answers, clutching onto Emily’s hand. “This place is a fucking maze. We were in a room with—with brains—and one of them got Ron—”

Emily screams, pointing over Darcy’s shoulder. “Tonks!”

Darcy whirls around to see Tonks falling painfully down the stairs—not from the top, but halfway up. Remembering her own tumble, Darcy’s entire body gives a sharp throb that quickly disappears when someone grabs onto the back of her shirt and tugs. She’s thrown onto her back, the wind knocked out of her again, still gripping her wand firmly. Nott, eyes blazing with rage, forgoes his wand to throw Darcy’s out of her hand, wrapping both hands around Darcy’s throat (his broken middle and ring fingers still bent unnaturally). He presses hard on her windpipe, and Darcy claws at his hands, gasping for breath, attempting to kick him, but with his weight on her thighs, it’s unsuccessful.

Something knocks him off Darcy as her lungs begin to burn, begging for oxygen, and the initial deep breath she takes leaves her panting. She lies still for a moment, until someone’s gentle and firm arms lift her bodily from the ground as if she weighs no more than forty pounds. “Gotcha, kid,” Sirius breathes in her ear, carrying her across the sunken pit to ease her onto the ground again, behind the curve of the dais and out of sight of other Death Eaters. He holds out her wand for her, and Darcy promises to herself never to lose her wand so many times in a night ever again. “Stay here—Harry and Neville are going to get everyone—”

“I can fight,” she insists, but Darcy isn’t quite sure she’s got any fight left in her. “Let me help—”

“ _Please_ ,” he begs softly, a hand on her face, stained with her blood. Sirius looks into her face, looking so sad that it nearly kills her right there.

“Okay,” she whispers after a moment.

Sirius nods and leaves a lingering kiss on her bloody forehead before taking off again. Darcy watches him go, peering around the side of the dais to inspect the situation from an outside view. Sirius is dueling with Bellatrix—a duel for the ages, and one Darcy desperately hopes he’ll win; Mad-Eye Moody lies bleeding on the ground, his chest still rising and falling; Lupin and Kingsley are the only other two still dueling, as Emily attempts to move an unconscious Tonks out of the line of fire, while avoiding spells shot at her. A little beside Emily is Harry, trying to help Neville up the stairs. Neville’s legs are twitching and jerking uncontrollably, and Darcy almost looks away, but at the last minute, sees a flash of bluish light—Neville’s Hogwarts robes tear and the prophecy, being kept inside, drops to the ground, bouncing and falling onto another step below, smashing.

Darcy’s hearts stops for a moment, and she almost goes to move, to help, to see if there’s anything that can be done to repair it, but before she gets the chance, she catches sight of another impressive figure at the top of the stairs. She can’t believe it—is it luck? or fate? or destiny? or just pure coincidence?—but Dumbledore is there, framed by the door Darcy knows is to the Brain Room, looking intimidating and angry and fearsome, a way she’s never looked at Dumbledore before.

The Death Eaters begin to scramble, and Dumbledore rounds them up with ease, using magic Darcy’s never seen before. As the dueling dies down, Lupin finally makes his way over to Darcy, nearly diving to her. She doesn’t even get a chance to apologize before his arms are around her, holding her tight, pressing kisses to every inch of her face, his lips coming back bloody. Darcy closes her eyes and relishes this feeling, feeling safe, safe for the first time in hours after so much danger. Finally, breathless, he pulls away and holds her face in his hands—warm hands, comforting hands—his touch makes the world around them melt away.

“Don’t _ever_ ,” he says, exasperated, “do that again.” Lupin takes her hands and squeezes them, springing back to his feet. “Wait here.”

As quickly as he’s come, he’s gone, leaving Darcy in a bewildered silence, her face still burning from all the sweet kisses he’s just given her for everyone to see—if anyone is even paying them the slightest bit of attention. She looks around the dais again, on her hands and knees; Lupin’s running towards Harry and Neville, preparing to help them up the stairs. Dumbledore continues trapping the Death Eaters who are bound together by some invisible force and unable to move.

There’s a crash right by her head and she ducks for a moment, holding still before raising herself up to look upon the dais. Sirius and Bellatrix are still dueling, hardly aware of their newest intruder. Sirius’ eyes are fixed on Bellatrix’s face, flicking to her hand every few seconds, an arrogant and handsome smile on his flushes face. Darcy looks to Dumbledore, who isn’t intervening—his back is turned as he waves his wand around his head, his rage something wonderful to behold—why isn’t he intervening? Doesn’t he see that Sirius is in danger? Another jet of red light flies past Sirius, directly towards Darcy’s head and she ducks again.

Anger surges through her. She remembers Neville’s parents at St Mungo’s—Bellatrix being the reason for that, or one of them. Neville, one of the kindest boys she’s ever met, his life riddled with pain and disaster and loss because of this woman. And she remembers their brief conversation after the D.A. meeting that one evening . . . and Darcy doesn’t know what feeling it is that overtakes her, but all she wants is for Sirius to kill Bellatrix . . . for Bellatrix to crumple lifeless on the floor, just like her mother had, to hurt just as Neville’s parents had.

Darcy lifts herself up again, pointing her wand at Bellatrix, but Bellatrix sidesteps Sirius’ Stunning Spell and sends one right back at him, hitting him square in the chest. And in that moment, the longest few seconds Darcy has ever known, every eye in the room seems to be on Sirius. He stumbles backwards and Darcy looks him full in the face as he takes another step . . . it’s a graceful fall, as if in slow-motion, his head touching the veil on the dais first, and then his shoulders, until the veil and archway swallow him whole. The veil ruffles, blowing as if in a high wind, and then it stills. She expects Sirius to fall through just to the other side, but he’s gone for seconds and doesn’t come, and the seconds begin to stretch out, and still, Sirius doesn’t reappear . . .

“ _Sirius_!” Harry is screaming, his voice echoing over Bellatrix’s triumphant jeers.

All the noise and scene around her disappears as Darcy closes her eyes. She’s five-years-old again, clinging to Sirius as if her life depends on it—he’s _there_ , she can _hear_ his heart beating frantically inside of his chest, the slickness of the sweat on his skin dampening her forehead. His arms are tight around her—

Her head is full with the sound of whispering, of murmuring—someone is calling for her, calling her name—urging her closer to the veil, to listen, to hear—“What . . .” she breathes, unsure if she’s the one even saying it. “What . . . ?”

The voices get louder, and she can’t distinguish what they’re saying, but she knows it’s her name . . . they’re beckoning to her, calling her to the archway . . . just beyond the veil . . . Darcy covers her ears with her hands, squeezing her eyes shut as tight as she can, so hard it’s giving her a headache . . . the voices, the voices, Darcy, Sirius, the voices, James, Sirius, Lily, Sirius, the voices, Darcy . . .

Hands are touching her wrists. Warm hands, but not Lupin’s. Comforting, still. The hands cradle her face, soft thumbs brushing her cheekbones. Rings—rings are touching her skin, they’re cold on her skin. Darcy opens her eyes to find Emily’s sad face inches from hers. It takes Darcy a minute to realize that Emily is talking—or rather, her lips are moving, but Darcy doesn’t hear a word she says. “Sirius,” she tries to say, but if the words come out, Emily shows no indication that she’s heard. Darcy sees her name on Emily’s lips. “Sirius . . .”

Emily sighs, pressing her forehead against Darcy’s. Darcy realizes that it hadn’t been Sirius’ heartbeat she’d been hearing, but her own—and her own face is slick with sweat and blood and tears, but the sight of Emily’s face drives away the desire to run to the veil . . . slowly, the voices quiet, the whispering is hardly there, and the sounds of the battle still raging around them swells, reminding Darcy of the danger around them, that their friends are in trouble, that Tonks may be dying, that Hermione may be dying, that Harry— _Harry_ —

“He’s coming,” Darcy says in a choked voice, grabbing Emily’s wrists for something just to hold onto, to touch. “He’s coming back—he’s coming back for me—”

Emily pulls back and shakes her head slowly, her beautiful eyes shining with tears, her beautiful face wet with them. But that’s ridiculous . . . as if Emily would know if Sirius were coming back or not . . . as if Sirius would confide that private detail to Emily . . . of course he’s coming back . . . he promised he would before Hagrid separated them . . .

“He’s coming,” Darcy says, louder this time, as more sounds come back to her and the furious beating of her heart begins to fade. “You don’t know him like I do . . . he’s coming for me . . . he loves me . . . he’s coming—”

“No, Darcy,” Emily whispers, wiping away tears from Darcy’s cheeks. Darcy can’t understand how her voice is so level—this has to be a joke, yet she’s not laughing at all, nor does she look ready to. “Darcy, he’s not coming back . . . I’m sorry . . . Darcy, I’m so sorry . . .”

“What?” Darcy asks. Her brain must be working slower than normal. It must have been the fall, all the confusion from the night. She can’t have heard Emily right. “What . . . ?”

“He’s gone, Darcy . . .” Emily says again, pulling Darcy to her chest. Darcy’s throat constricts and she can’t breathe and she fumbles with the lapels of Emily’s torn and bloodstained denim jacket, hoping it will steady her—the world is spinning, spinning, spinning around her . . . “He’s gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry—I never had any intention of letting Sirius live 😹😹


	63. Chapter 63

Darcy looks around the room, as if observing everyone from an outside perspective. Emily’s shaky hands are still touching her, the only thing keeping her from moving still towards the archway, where Kingsley has rushed forward to duel Bellatrix in Sirius’ place. The remaining Death Eaters have all be captured and bound by Dumbledore, and across the room, Darcy watches as Lupin struggles to contain Harry, flailing and screaming, red-faced and equal parts horrified and angry, screaming at Bellatrix.

“Let’s get out of here,” Emily whispers, and Darcy is disturbed to see Emily’s face looking so afraid. Her voice is just as shaky as Darcy’s, who has to allow a moment to pass to process what Emily’s even saying to her. “Let’s—”

There’s a flash of light, a grunt of pain—both Darcy and Emily hold each other close as Kingsley’s body crashes to the ground right beside them. Even with the world still spinning around her, Darcy’s feet and legs move of their own accord. She releases Emily and stands slowly as Bellatrix flees, deflecting and blocking Dumbledore’s spells one after the other, racing up the steep stone steps, going to get away. But she isn’t the only body running away—Harry is following, his wand out, still shouting incoherently, looking unsteady on his feet.

She doesn’t think—not that her legs really wait for her to. If Harry looks unsteady on his feet, Darcy can’t imagine what she must look like. She follows, catching up quickly with her long legs, nearly diving towards and crawling up the stairs after her brother. Emily is screaming her name, and she can just barely hear Lupin, as well, calling after them both. There are more shouts, but Darcy doesn’t listen or heed them, doesn’t look back to see who’s all calling her name. Unbalanced and exhausted, Darcy reaches the top of the stairs mere seconds after Harry, stumbling into the threshold of the door before proceeding forward through the Brain Room, where her friends are still lying, just now stirring, speaking to Harry, unaware of what’s just happened—unaware of the pain that Darcy has experienced—pain of every kind—pain that makes her wish for an end to it, to close her eyes and sleep and sleep and sleep . . . yet she persists after Harry, slipping on the green liquid that had filled the tanks, running into tables, colliding into shelves and the threshold of another door across the room, just out of reach of Harry, who doesn’t seem to have noticed her following him.

She enters the dark, circular room again, full of doors. Bellatrix must have already gone through one of them, for Darcy sees no sign of her, but Harry is running through another open door, and Darcy pelts after him before it can slam shut in her face. She can’t feel her legs anymore, and her lungs are on fire again, her throat burning with rising bile, but this corridor is lighter, torches perched upon the walls in their bronze sconces, and the golden lifts are straight ahead . . . the exit . . . she’s finally leaving this damned place . . . Harry runs into the lift, meets Darcy’s eyes for a split second as she pushes herself off one of the walls to continue her journey, but he makes the split second decision to go on alone. If she is the one who calls his name as the lift grilles close before she can reach them, Darcy doesn’t recognize it as her own rasping and hoarse voice. Harry watches her as the lift clangs loudly, making her head throb, and he begins to ascend, disappearing from view.

Darcy calls a third lift, pressing the button with panic, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one has followed her. The lift seems to take forever, or her sense of time has been thrown off. Out of habit, she glances down at her watch, still stuck at 9:12. What time is it? How long has she been trapped in that madhouse? How long had it taken for someone to realize she’d been gone? And how had Dumbledore known where to find them? Who had access to Dumbledore? The clattering of an approaching lift brings her out of her reverie, and she throws herself inside, pressing the button for the Atrium with all the strength that still remains her.

It seems to take forever, and as Darcy tries to control her breathing, something overpowers those feelings of guilt, of loss . . . something that she’s never known to this degree. Hatred—a burning hatred towards this woman who took Sirius away from her, a burning hatred towards the woman who doesn’t care that Darcy hurts, that her life and heart has once again been broken into a million little pieces, that Darcy will never be the same again. To have taken away the man she’d only just gotten back, who’d lived out the last years of his life in one prison in exchange for another. The injustice of it all ignites a raging fire in her that will be only be doused by revenge—to see Bellatrix taken away from this Earth like Sirius has been . . .

Darcy nearly falls over the lift’s threshold, her senses coming back to her somewhat as she hears the sounds of screams and laughter coming from ahead. She picks up her pace, wand held at the ready, a tingling sensation in her arm, as if her body knows by instinct what she’s planning on doing. Harry is hidden behind the fountain, the handsome wizard now lacking a head. Bellatrix is standing, urging Harry to give her the prophecy that had broken—Darcy had watched it shatter—and she feels that hatred and anger flare up again as she points her wand at Bellatrix.

“ _Crucio_!”

Bellatrix laughs with glee, as if expecting the curse to do nothing—but it knocks her to the ground and the shrill, animalistic scream of someone in horrible pain fills Darcy’s ears. The warm tingling in her arm intensifies as she creeps closer to Bellatrix, still debating whether or not she should attempt to kill her. Bellatrix writhes like a fish out of water, the cords straining in her neck and her face turning bright red. Privately, Darcy thinks the image is quite satisfying, punishment for what Bellatrix had done to Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom, punishment for what she’d done to Sirius. She deserves it, of all people, and Darcy is prepared to be the judge, jury, and the executioner if need be—

“Darcy!”

Harry’s pleading voice from behind her distracts her. Darcy suddenly realizes what she’s doing and stumbles backwards, the curse breaking, Bellatrix’s screams dying down to heavy breathing. The comforting warmth the curse had provided Darcy fades, and she looks down at her hands, horrified. Distracted, for just that split second, Bellatrix is able to cast a curse that Darcy has no knowledge of, one that hits her in the thighs and sends a surge of pain through her, as if her legs have been sawed in half, and she collapses as Bellatrix raises her wand again. She tries to stand, but can’t feel her legs at all, making her panic.

Harry grabs Darcy by the foot, pulling her with surprising strength behind the fountain, causing Bellatrix’s Killing Curse to miss by inches. “Are you all right?” Harry breathes, bringing his sleeve to her face and wiping her forehead and left temple. His face is stark white, covered with a sheen of sweat, his eyes bloodshot.

Darcy knows why he’s asking, but she doesn’t want to talk about Sirius. As Bellatrix calls again for the prophecy, Darcy touches her legs and whispers, “I can’t feel my legs.”

“One last chance, Potter!” Bellatrix screeches. Darcy begins to panic, prodding her legs with her wand, attempting to feel something. “Roll the prophecy to me or suffer the same fate as your precious godfather!”

These words hardly affect Darcy at the moment—the more pressing issue for her is the fact that she’s unable to move without crawling, pulling herself along by her arms. She can’t walk, she can’t stand, can’t escape—“Harry,” she whispers again, this time her voice much shakier. He looks at her with wide and fearful eyes. “Harry, I can’t feel my legs.”

Harry closes his eyes, his breath coming in short gasps. He closes his eyes tight for a moment, pressing two fingers hard to the lightning bolt scar on his forehead. “The prophecy was smashed!” he shouts at Bellatrix, massaging his forehead. “And Voldemort knows!” He gasps in pain, and says to Darcy, “It hurts . . . it hurts . . .”

Darcy swallows hard, looking hopefully towards the lifts. No one is coming, it seems, and she doesn’t hear the lifts clattering and clanging. She sighs heavily, leaning against the fountain and tilting her head back to allow the splashing droplets of cool, refreshing water touch her face. Then, looking at Harry again, she takes his hand in hers, laces their fingers together, and squeezes hard. He squeezes back, pulling Darcy to him to hold her as Bellatrix creeps nearer, ready to kill them both.

“It isn’t true . . .” she cries out, but there’s a trace of panic in her voice. In a moment, they will be in full sight of Bellatrix, and Darcy wraps her left arm around Harry’s shoulders, holding her wand out to protect them, but before she can round the corner, she shrieks. “Master, I tried! Do not punish me!”

“He can’t hear you from here!” Harry shouts, still pressing his scar, his forehead turning red from the pressure, his scar looking very prominent against his pale white flesh. Darcy closes her eyes, nuzzling into Harry’s damp hair.

“Can’t I, Potter?”

A chill runs down Darcy’s spine and her eyes snap open. Voldemort is standing in the middle of the hall, and they both are clearly visible to him. He looks just as he did when Darcy had seen him the night her parents had died—the red eyes are looking directly at she and Harry beneath that black hood that hides most of his ghostly white face, a skin color that is most unnatural. She and Harry tremble against each other and Darcy holds him as tight as she can, pressing her lips to his temple, grateful beyond words that he does not squirm or pull away from her.

“You smashed my prophecy?” Voldemort asks, fury in those red eyes. His voice is cold, higher than she expected, given she’s only heard him speak twice—once when he cast the spell the killed her mother, and again when he cast the spell attempting to kill her brother. A mystery she will never know the answer to given that the prophecy was, indeed, broken. “Then I have nothing more to say to you, Potter. _Avada Kedavra!_ ”

Making up her mind in a split second, Darcy repositions best she can, her legs useless, but her arms working fine. She contorts and pulls Harry closer, turning so the spell will hit her back instead of Harry. With her eyes closed tight, she waits for death to come, but nothing happens. There’s a crash from just behind her, and Darcy turns to find the bronze, headless wizard standing there, arms spread wide as the jet of green light bounces off his chest.

And then, Voldemort’s surprised voice—“Dumbledore!”

Darcy almost cries at the sight of him, so full of relief, of heartache, of grief. All of her emotions hit her at once, and Dumbledore moves forward, suddenly fading with a whirl of his cloak to reappear behind Voldemort, the other statues now leaping to life. The witch pins Bellatrix to the floor as she continues to scream, and the centaur charges at Voldemort, but the headless wizard approaches Darcy, lifting her with his large and strong arms to move her well out of sight and out of harm’s way. As he sets her back down again, he hurries to Harry a little way away, far enough that Darcy would have to raise her voice to speak to him, stopping Harry from joining the thick of the fighting.

This is magic beyond anything Darcy could possibly dream of—this is magic that surely only Dumbledore or Voldemort could conjure. While Voldemort aims to kill, firing Killing Curse after Killing Curse at Dumbledore, Dumbledore doesn’t seem to have the same goal in mind. If the circumstances and situation wasn’t so dire, Darcy would think Dumbledore is showing off—he has a flare for magic that Darcy can hardly believe. Their duel is flames and lassos, magic on a scale Darcy could never hope to learn, Shield Charms that look powerful enough to protect someone from the most dangerous attack, a giant serpent made entirely of fire. Even Fawkes is part of the duel, swallowing a Killing Curse and bursting into flames before Darcy’s very eyes. Sirius, her legs, are momentarily forgotten as she watches, mesmerized by this magic, mesmerized by the knowledge that Voldemort is able to match Dumbledore. Darcy doesn’t even think Dumbledore is giving it his all, and she struggles to imagine what magic he could produce when pressed even harder.

Harry’s back is to Darcy as he, too, is entranced by the duel. Several times he makes a move as if to help Dumbledore, but the headless wizard stands guard, keeping him away. Beside Harry, the water from the fountain rises up fluidly at Dumbledore’s wand’s command, cocooning Voldemort. Darcy can see the dark shadow this is Voldemort, struggling in the mass, trying to breathe, to escape it—

And just like that, Darcy can’t see him anymore. The water cocoon crashes and splashes to the floor, and Darcy looks around wildly for Voldemort. She holds her wand up, feeling very vulnerable. Harry seems to sense that Voldemort has fled, getting to his feet and making straight for Dumbledore, but both Dumbledore and the headless wizard atop him, and in a frightened voice, Dumbledore shouts, “Stay where you are, Harry!”

There’s a deafening scream, and goosebumps rise all over Darcy’s body. The scream is coming from Harry’s mouth and he falls back on the floor, twitching and jerking and writhing. Darcy’s breath hitches as his mouth opens, and when he speaks, the voice is certainly not his own—it is, but it isn’t, Darcy is sure of it. His jaw moves awkwardly, in sharp and painful movements. “Kill me now, Dumbledore,” Harry says, and Darcy’s heart beats painfully. He screams again before growling, “If death is nothing, Dumbledore, kill the boy . . .”

Darcy doesn’t know if Dumbledore would kill him or not, but Darcy’s world—or what’s left of it—crumbles around her. He seems miles away from her, but she must get to him . . . Harry continues to writhe on the ground, crying out in pain and agony, his eyes closed tight. Darcy can’t watch—she doesn’t want to watch whatever is happening—but she can’t look away, it captivates her attention so. She isn’t aware of tears beginning to flow again until they drip on the ground, on her fingers, splayed across the mirror-like flooring of the Atrium. Darcy looks down and finds herself—or a part of herself—looking back at her. She almost looks half-dead; there’s a large gash in her forehead that sends stabbing pains through her for the first time that night, and blood has already dried on her face, down her cheek. There are bruises around her throat where Nott had tried to choke her, and her bottom lip is cut and swollen. Her red hair is matted to her face with blood, damp with sweat, in desperate need of a wash.

Darcy looks up at Harry again. She has to get to Harry. She doesn’t know what exactly is happening as he lies there, screaming in agony as Dumbledore stands over him with the most frightened expression she’s ever seen on his face. Is Harry dying? Still unable to feel her legs, Darcy throws herself onto her stomach, crawling with her arms, using all the strength that is left in her body. She crawls forward a few inches, crying out—her body is bruised all over and the pain is just now starting, now that the adrenaline has left her system. Harry screams again. _Not now, not after Sirius_. She pulls herself a few more inches closer. It’s a slow start, but she will get there. Sirius. Pain that isn’t physical this time ripples through her at the thought of her godfather. Another few inches.

Dumbledore does not stop her as she approaches, her arms shaking violently. He does not tell her to stop, to go back, does not reach out to stop her. She reaches Harry’s side, using him as an anchor to pull herself the last couple of inches, and when his eyes open, they are not his eyes. They are blank and empty and dead, looking into her eyes but not seeing her. Without thinking, needing to just hold her brother, needing his arms around her, Darcy wraps her arms around Harry, holding his writhing body to her and crying into his hair.

“I love you, Harry,” she sobs against him, unable to block the dam of tears that flow. _There are worse things than death_ , she had told him back in the room with the archway that took Sirius away, and surely this is the worst—this is worse than death by a thousand times, the hurt of holding Harry to her, the hurt of Sirius being gone. The pain of everything hits her at once, sending shockwaves through her body. Darcy kisses the side of his head—

The screaming and writhing stops at once, as soon as her lips touch his head. Harry lies limp in her arms, his body shaking, shivering. His eyes flutter open and Darcy, through her tears, smiles, allowing Harry to nuzzle against her, just like he used to when he was a little boy.

“Darcy—” Harry croaks, crying against her shoulder, his glasses cracked and askew and pressing into her skin..

“I’m here.” Harry grasps at her clothing, twisting his hands in the fabric of her shirt, and Darcy rests her cheek upon the top of his head as the fireplaces along the sides of the Atrium burst to life with their green flames. Witches and wizards pour into the empty Atrium in droves, stopping at the scene of destruction and looking around in awe. A hand clasps Darcy’s free shoulder, Dumbledore’s long fingers gripping her tight, his other hand on Harry’s back.

“He was there!” shouts one of the workers, pointing to the statue of the witch that had been holding Bellatrix hostage. “You-Know-Who! He Disapparated with a woman!”

“I know!” comes Fudge’s voice. Darcy continues to stroke Harry’s hair, burying her face in his hair, unwilling to let him go. “I saw him too!”

Dumbledore stands then, walking away to speak with Fudge. Harry lifts his head just slightly to reveal a very tear-stained face, turning away to hide it from the group of newcomers. Still half-hidden by the fountain, Darcy is unable to see Fudge, only the back of Dumbledore. She’s glad for that, not keen to be seen in such a state.

“Are you all right?” Darcy whispers in Harry’s ear, combing his hair flat (or trying to) where the permanent cowlicks tease her constantly.

Harry exhales loudly against her, his back jumping as he sobs quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Darcy shakes her head, unable to stop crying into his dark, messy hair. “Don’t be.”

Fudge stutters loudly, demanding details of what’s happened to the Atrium. Darcy doesn’t listen. She doesn’t want to hear Fudge’s voice, trying to focus solely on Harry, on catching her breath, on recalling the events of the last few hours. Everything seems to have happened so quickly that she hasn’t processed everything still. She doesn’t want to process anything—she wants to forget, to sleep for days, for years maybe, until this night is like a blur and she can barely remember anything about it.

She hears her name. “Darcy Potter? And . . . Harry?” Fudge has moved closer, shuffling around the fountain to goggle at her and her brother. “What is this about, Dumbledore? I could have her arrested here, right now! I do not forget that she had led an army against the Ministry of Magic!”

“You will do no such thing, Cornelius,” Dumbledore remarks in a deadly and dangerous tone, stepping directly in front of Darcy and Harry as Fudge moves closer. “You and Dolores Umbridge have caused this poor girl enough grief this year, and I will have no more of it. Call the order to have her arrested, and you will leave me with no choice but to protect her, and I warn you—my protection will be lethal if need be.”

Fudge stammers again, but does not call the order. Dumbledore picks up the broken wizard’s head, bringing it over to Harry and Darcy. He kneels, with much cracking and popping of his old joints, looking Darcy in the face. “I am sending you and Harry back to Hogwarts. Emily should be there by now, waiting in the hospital wing for you. Harry, I would like you to wait for me in my office. I will only be about half an hour. Darcy, we will speak when you are healed, rested, and ready.” And pointing his wand at the head, Dumbledore mutters, “ _Portus_.” Fudge makes a noise of protest. The head turns bright blue, making Darcy squint, and it rattles for a moment against the hard floor before finally stilling. Darcy and Harry look at each other. “Go on. Take it.”

Both of them move at the same time, taking hold of the head, and before anyone can say anymore, there’s a jerk behind her navel and the world really does spin around her this time. It makes her incredibly dizzy, and when she lands upon the cold, stone floor of the hospital wing at Hogwarts, she promptly vomits. Harry, without complaint or a scrunch of his nose, wipes her mouth with his sleeve and then jumps to his feet, looking around wildly for Madam Pomfrey.

“It’s her legs,” Harry says softly to Madam Pomfrey, motioning to Darcy over his shoulder. “She can’t walk . . .”

As Harry explains to the matron what had happened with her legs, Darcy blushes, looking around the hospital wing. Everyone who’d been at the Ministry—except for Tonks, it seems—is lying or sitting up in one of the cots, all looking at her. Hermione seems to be sleeping. Ron, Ginny, Luna, and Kingsley all avert their eyes after a moment, fixing their gazes upon Harry instead. Neville doesn’t look away, though, seemingly trying to catch her eye with an apologetic look on his face, a bold move for Neville; Emily, the only one standing besides Madam Pomfrey, looks ready to race to Darcy’s side, but continues to give the matron a sideways look as if afraid to be chastised for bothering Darcy; both of Mad-Eye Moody’s eyes are fixed on Darcy, his normal eye narrowed, surveying her with a very intense stare; and Lupin is looking at her with wide, sad eyes, his right arm in a sling and a dark bruise beneath his left eye, his face still carrying traces of the blood on Darcy’s cheeks and forehead that had come away when he’d kissed her.

“Duncan,” Madam Pomfrey says curtly, and Emily perks up at once, ready for instruction. “Grab her arms. I’ll get her legs. Put her on the bed there.”

Emily and Madam Pomfrey loft Darcy from the ground with surprising ease, lowering her gently into the empty bed beside Lupin. At once, Madam Pomfrey closes the curtain around Darcy’s bed, and she’s grateful to not have to be looked at by anyone anymore.

“Er—Madam Pomfrey?” Harry asks softly from the other side. The matron sticks her head out to look at him. “Dumbledore’s asked me to wait in his office for him. Could I say good-bye to Darcy?”

“Dumbledore’s finally coming back, is he?” Madam Pomfrey sounds much relieved. “Good. About damn time, too. Yes, yes—come in, say good-bye.”

Everyone shuffles around awkwardly. Harry slips inside the curtain wall and Madam Pomfrey places a hand on Emily’s shoulder to lead them out, leaving Darcy alone with her brother. Very aware that everyone in the hospital wing will hear their conversation, Darcy flushes, but Harry either ignores it or doesn’t notice. He sits on the edge of the bed, holding her hand and squeezing very tight before letting go again.

“I’ll come visit you when I’m done with Professor Dumbledore,” he says, trying to be as quiet as possible. A blush creeps up the back of his neck, as well, as he runs his free hand through his hair. “Even if you’re sleeping.”

Darcy smiles weakly at him. “Don’t worry about me. I think I’ve got plenty of company here.” Harry nods shortly, clenching his jaw and blinking back tears. “Come here, Harry.”

He obliges, falling into her again as if he’d been waiting for her to ask. Darcy wraps her arms around him and closes her eyes, grateful that she has at least one more family member that she can hold onto. He sniffles against her shoulder, his entire face—or what she can see of it—is bright red. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he murmurs against her, absently touching the raised scars through her shirt with his index finger.

“Okay,” she whispers, privately wishing the same thing. “We can wait until you’re ready.” Darcy gives him a kiss. “Don’t keep Dumbledore waiting.”

Harry pulls away from her, and as soon as he exits the curtain around her bed, Madam Pomfrey and Emily bustle back in. They’re both carrying armfuls of potions, goblets and vials, and Madam Pomfrey asks Darcy if there are any other injuries she should be aware of. Darcy confesses that she doesn’t know, but tells her honestly of her hurts, ashamed that her confessions are likely heard by everyone. Madam Pomfrey promises to give her dreamless sleep after doing a brief exam; her face is very white and her hands are uncharacteristically shaky, and Darcy is under the impression that Emily or someone had filled in Madam Pomfrey regarding what Darcy had been through in the past few hours.

“Let’s get you in some clean clothes first. We’ll help you,” Madam Pomfrey says soothingly.

Darcy is glad they help. All of her strength has been sapped from her. Emily helps Darcy sit up straight so Madam Pomfrey can take her shirt off, the result being gasps from the both of them. Darcy’s looks down and her stomach flips violently. She’s covered in bruises, more black and blue than white. It seems as if every stair she’d fallen against has left a mark. Some are accompanied with dried blood, others grotesque and mostly black. Her legs are much the same, and Madam Pomfrey asks her to try and move her feet, but Darcy can’t do it, begins to panic, and starts to cry. Lying in nothing but her bra and underwear, exhausted and in pain and grieving and a human canvas of bruises, Darcy starts breathing quickly, and both Emily and Madam Pomfrey attempt to talk her down. She can taste the fresh blood on her lips that dripping from her nose, and that’s when the curtain opens again to her right and Lupin sneaks in, closing the curtain behind him.

Neither Emily nor Madam Pomfrey protest when he sits on the edge of the bed. Emily passes him a clean rag from the nightstand beside her, and Lupin holds it to her nose. Madam Pomfrey quickly arranges the potions needed to help Darcy. Slowly, forcing herself to look up at him, Darcy’s breathing begins to even out again.

Lupin doesn’t speak the entire time Madam Pomfrey urges Darcy to drink goblet after goblet after goblet. She gives Emily some paste that almost looks like the same kind of paste Gemma used on Darcy’s face last summer, and Emily gently rubs it onto the bruises that litter Darcy’s skin, from her chest, all the way down to her ankles. Once Darcy drinks all the potions necessary, Emily helps roll Darcy onto her side so they’re able to reach the bruises on her backside.

Finally, Darcy finds her voice, settling on her back again. “Where is Tonks?”

“St Mungo’s,” Madam Pomfrey answers, a glass of purple liquid in her hands. “The Healers say she’ll make a full recovery.”

Darcy doesn’t think any happy response to that would sound genuine while in this awful state, so she says nothing. Emily helps her into some clothing that Darcy thinks are Emily’s to begin with, the way they fit. “Are my legs . . . ?”

“It will take a few days of nursing them and many more doses of some things, but yes, they will get better. It was a powerful spell.” She passes Darcy the Sleeping Draught. “Take this. You need rest.”

Glancing sideways at Lupin, Darcy asks, “Could Remus and I have a—”

“Not now, my love,” Lupin finally says, in a completely broken voice. Darcy looks up into his face to see he looks much older than last she’s seen him. The lines and scars on his face are more pronounced, shadows under his swollen eyes, lacking healthy color to him. “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake.”

She doesn’t know why panic grips her heart at these words. “Do you promise?”

Lupin takes her open hand in both of his, bringing it to his forehead, nuzzling against her knuckles, and closing his eyes. He stays like that for a moment before kissing her fingers and finally lowering her hand back to her side. “I promise.”

Darcy takes the potion afterwards, still wary, but not as afraid to wake without him. The last thing she remembers is Lupin smoothing her hair back before everything goes black.

* * *

Darcy wakes with a start, panicking, prepared to jump from this unfamiliar bed before remembering she can’t move her legs. A gas lamp turns on suddenly and Darcy screams as someone moves beside her, cast in shadow for a moment, and then the light shines on honey blonde hair and a thin frame. It suddenly occurs to Darcy where she is, even with this dim lighting. She’s in her room—not _her_ bedroom, or course, at Grimmauld Place—but in her room at Hogwarts. Her things—her trunk and a few bags—are stacked in the far corner of the room, and the window is open, where Max is perched and basking in the moonlight.

“How long have I been asleep?” Darcy asks, her heart beating frantically.

“Twenty-two hours,” Emily replies sleepily, rubbing her bleary eyes. “Madam Pomfrey drugged you, you know? Are you hungry? Do you have to use the bathroom?”

Slightly sweaty, Darcy feels the beginnings of an uncomfortable ache in her stomach. “Both.” She blushes furiously. “I need help.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Emily says gently, climbing out of bed, grabbing her wand, and walking around to Darcy’s side. “Madam Pomfrey had everyone leave the hospital wing, save Hermione. She’s all right, though. We got you up here with a stretcher before anyone could ogle you in the hospital wing.”

It’s the most humiliating experience Darcy has ever known, but she’s glad it’s Emily and no one else. Emily would never judge her in such a position, and there’s little of Darcy—if any part—that Emily’s never seen before. Once Emily gets her safely back in bed, she leaves her to gather food from the living area just beyond the narrow bedroom door. She returns with a few sandwiches and a tall glass of water. Darcy looks down at them, suddenly not feeling very hungry, but she takes to the water, drinking nearly all of it in one go, until she’s comfortably bloated.

Emily sits, watching, her knees pulled up to her chest. “Dumbledore said he’d like to speak with you in the morning, if you’re feeling well enough. He said he’d have breakfast brought up for the both of you.” She seems to be waiting for a reaction from Darcy before continuing. “Harry came by earlier. Lupin was here a few times, too. Dumbledore’s put him up in a room just below. It’s supposed to be a secret, though, so I wouldn’t go rushing to tell anyone.”

This makes Darcy smile in spite of herself, and Emily smiles back weakly. “How did my stuff get here?”

“Dumbledore brought it back this afternoon. He said he cleaned out your room completely, but if you find anything missing, you can tell him, and he’ll return.”

Darcy blushes, hoping he hadn’t cleaned out Lupin’s room, too. “Emily . . .” Darcy breathes, holding her head in her hands. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” Emily looks deeply apologetic, her eyes shining with tears. “Come here.”

Darcy leans into her, allowing Emily to hold her tight for a long time while she cries.

She doesn’t sleep the rest of the night. She can’t understand how Emily can sleep, either. The only noises come from Emily’s soft snoring and from outside—owls hooting through the open window, the occasional ruffle of Max’s wings as he stands sentinel, the chirping of summer insects and the occasional breeze, blowing the treetops all the way in the Forbidden Forest. Darcy wishes she could have asked Madam Pomfrey for a lifetime supply of Sleeping Draughts. She isn’t even sure which is worse, as of yet—sleep or being awake.

She hasn’t yet had any dreams yet, for the potion had worked wonderfully, even if Madam Pomfrey did give her a larger dose than necessary. But being awake is torture, and even when sleep threatens to take her, Darcy knows she’ll have to wake again and live in this cycle of hell—nightmares, her conscious thoughts, nightmares, her conscious thoughts. She wonders, if she begged Professor Snape enough, if he’d take the memory of tonight. She’ll beg on her knees if she has to, cry for a long time until Snape submits, do anything he wants . . . all she wants is to forget—to forget the look of incredulity on Sirius’ handsome face as he’d fallen through the veil, all while Darcy had watched on.

_It’s my fault_. Darcy had craved freedom, fresh air, a change of scenery—she’d craved _adventure_ —and it had led to her own godfather’s demise. If she hadn’t been so reckless, if she hadn’t been so foolhardy . . . if she’d only told Sirius what Kreacher had said . . . he could have contacted someone . . . they could have waited until Lupin got home and had him go to the Ministry. All of those options, in Darcy’s mind, lead to Sirius not dying. How many times had she been told not to leave the house? How many times had Snape told her not to be lured anywhere, especially to the Ministry? How many times had Snape scolded her for her inability to listen to and follow instructions? But none of her slip-ups had ever caused anyone’s death . . . her own stupidity had caused that.

If Darcy had thought she could handle her grief because she’s done it before, she was wrong—dead wrong. This is a different kind of grief all together—not the loss of what could have been, but the loss of what _was_ and was _going to be_. Darcy had it, had what she wanted, what she couldn’t remember with her parents—a home that she could call hers, a real family who’d built memories together and loved each other. Life had given her what she wanted for near the first time in her life, had let her fall in love with the idea of safety and with having the closest thing to a father possible to care for her, and then life had torn it away from her as carelessly as Hagrid had torn her away from Sirius all those years ago. All of her promises to Sirius about being a real family are meaningless now, all of her dreams of holidays spent together and birthdays are shattered. Sirius will never see her get married, will never see her teach at Hogwarts, will never kiss her head again or smile at her or drink with her or comfort her. Everything he provided her, she needed—the love, the affection, the familiarity, the reminder that not all had been lost . . . all of it, gone.

It’s _her_ fault that Harry will no longer have the closest thing he’s ever had to a father, that Lupin’s last real friend is gone, that Gemma will no longer have a home to go to when she feels in need of a little joy, that Emily will have a gaping hole in her heart where Sirius had been. Every person who knew him, who really knew him, and loved him, will be hurting now because of Darcy’s actions. That pain is worse, somehow—or maybe it’s just different. The pain of knowing she’s hurt everyone that she loves the most, and she knows that she deserves the blame they’ll surely place on her. And yet . . . Emily is sleeping beside her, helping her around, taking care of her, and Lupin had comforted her in the throes of a panic attack without needing to be asked.

Morning comes quickly, not having been far off to begin with. It brings with it a lively song of cheerful birds, a song that does not at all match Darcy’s mood. Part of her is privately very glad that she can’t walk, for sulking in bed seems a much better option, and she doesn’t think she ever wants to leave it. Let her melt into the mattress, become apart of it so she doesn’t have to think anymore, or move, or have anything be expected of her.

Emily gives her the new doses of potions, explaining that, because Darcy is such a heavy sleeper, she’d been able to quite easily spoon feed Darcy while she’d been sleeping. After his, Darcy begins to feel a tingling in her legs, but only for a few moments, and it’s not long after that exciting event that the portrait hole opens outside the bedroom to reveal Dumbledore to Emily. She ushers him in politely and he thanks her, begging to speak with Darcy alone.

He does, indeed, bring in two polished silver trays of breakfast, floating behind him through the threshold. Eggs, toast, bacon, sausages, kippers, ketchup, orange juice, coffee—everything Darcy can think of is stacked and stuffed onto the tray, and though Darcy knows she should eat, she finds she has absolutely no appetite. Dumbledore takes one of the trays from midair and sets it on the bed at Darcy’s side, taking the other and sitting down at the end of the bed with it.

She watches him for a moment as he flattens his robes and gets situated, throws his silver beard over his shoulder. He seems older than Darcy’s ever seen him before. His piercing blue eyes seem duller, not all-seeing, and heavy with sleep, his pallor is not what it normally is—he lacks his rosy complexion, and there are wrinkles all over his flesh, leaving almost no part smooth and young-looking. Besides the physical details, there’s an air of weariness and utter exhaustion about him that Darcy associates with Lupin just before or after a transformation. He seems weak—just an old, stooped, frail man, unable to possibly comprehend the state of her shattered heart, unable to ever understand the ache that Sirius has left behind. Darcy can’t help but hate the man sitting in front of her, hate him for taking away the chance of a happy life nearly sixteen years ago, hate him for not doing more to clear Sirius’ name, hate him for not doing more to save him.

Even if Sirius’ death were her fault, Darcy will not apologize to this man. Not to Dumbledore, who had kept her in the dark, who had refused to involve her in the Order even out of Hogwarts. He had caged her, just as he’d done to Sirius. He’d caged her because he was afraid she’d run away—as if she’d run away from Sirius, or Lupin, or Harry! As if she’d leave them behind without any indication as to where she’s going! The idea that she’s a flight risk is insulting, and Darcy wants to hear the apology from his own mouth—she wants an apology for being caged at Hogwarts, for being excluded from the Order, for being dropped at Grimmauld Place with no explanation or plan or even so much a good-bye.

And that’s exactly what he does. Dumbledore’s first words are—“Darcy, I owe you a many great apologies, and I intend to make each one as sincere as the last.” He pauses here for a moment, pushing away his breakfast tray of untouched food. “But first, I must ask—how are you feeling?”

Darcy blinks. What a stupid fucking question, she can’t help but to think. A stupid fucking question after all that’s happened. She doesn’t care much about being polite anymore, trying hard to keep her anger at bay. “I’ve just watched my godfather die, and I need someone to carry me to the toilet whenever I need to pee. How do you think I am feeling?”

Dumbledore exhales through his long, crooked nose, the weariness very apparent again.

“‘Never happy any more! Is it not but a sorry lore that says “Take strength, the worst is o’er”?’” Darcy clenches and unclenches her jaw, the mere sight of Dumbledore annoying and irritating and painful. “‘Shall the stars seem heretofore? The day wears on more and more—While I was weeping the day wore. No, no more.’”

“I would so like to hear you recite poetry under less . . . trying circumstances. Remus tells me you recite it very beautifully, and who am I to question his judgement when he knows you so much better than I?” Dumbledore asks, and Darcy hates herself for blushing, though she does not look away from him. There’s another long pause, and Darcy quite feels she doesn’t know what else to say to him. “You probably expect an explanation from me, Darcy, one regarding the prophecy that was destroyed in the Department of Mysteries. However, I have told your brother all, and feel that—if it is your wish—you’d much rather hear it from your brother.”

“Yes,” Darcy rasps truthfully. Hearing it from Dumbledore will likely only incense her further, and she wants to hear Harry’s take on it. Harry would likely deliver the truth much more honestly and directly, and she’s sure he’d be much gentler about it, whatever it is.

“There are some things I wish to tell you myself, however,” Dumbledore continues. “Things you’ve been wondering for some time, I think. I have done you a disservice in keeping from you the truth of things, and I think—given the current circumstances—it is best to begin my story at the beginning . . . it is time for you to know why I did not allow Sirius to take you almost sixteen years ago now. It is time for you to know why I instructed Hagrid to bring you to your aunt and uncle’s.”

Darcy’s mouth grows very dry all of a sudden. Her curiosity gets the better of her, her wanting to know more momentarily overpowering her anger. She’s waited years for this—his reasoning behind leaving her with a relative who hates her and Harry. Darcy can’t imagine what Dumbledore’s reasoning may be, and imagines it will be a very sorry one, but she needs to know.

“I know you will be angry with me, but I ask for your complete attention until I finish, and then you have my permission to speak freely, without worry of repercussions.” He waits for Darcy to nod. Dumbledore inhales deeply, his hands in his lap. “You have to understand firstly, that I thought Sirius to be your parents’ Secret-Keeper, do you remember me telling you that? I believed it to be Sirius who had betrayed your parents to Lord Voldemort. I was not going to allow Hagrid to turn you over to or allow you to go with a man I suspected had dishonest and murderous intentions. I wanted you alive, safe, at your brother’s side, because I knew what I was subjecting you to when I had the two of you brought to Privet Drive.”

Dumbledore takes another deep breath, as thought this confession physically pains him. Darcy feels that, for once, keeping her mouth shut is likely the best thing to do in this situation. She keeps her eyes fixed upon his sad, sad face.

“Did I think then, that Voldemort was gone from this world forever?” he asks himself, slowly shaking his head. “No. I knew that Voldemort would return, but when? The following day? A week from then? One year? Ten? And I knew, when Voldemort did return, he would not rest until destroying the boy who’d caused the loss of his powers, the loss of his body, for reasons unknown to him, to you, to Harry, to even me. My first priority was to keep Harry from that fate, to keep him safe for as long as possible, and I knew the only way to do that was to work magic such as Voldemort has never comprehended.”

There’s another pause, this time for so long that Darcy doesn’t think he’s going to continue. “What kind of magic, Professor?” she whispers, glad that Dumbledore does not get angry at her interruption.

He leans forward slightly, as if to create a more dramatic effect. The familiar gleam is back in his eyes, and it seems he’s speaking faster, as if desperate to explain himself. “Your mother died to save Harry,” Dumbledore says, and Darcy’s brow furrows. “Her loving sacrifice had caused a protection to flow through Harry’s veins—through Lily’s blood . . . you, and your aunt, Petunia. I had a decision to make, and I made the decision I felt was the most secure. I placed a charm upon Harry, left the both of you upon the doorstep for Petunia to see, and when she took you into her home—grudgingly, at that—she sealed the charm I placed on Harry. As long as that place is home, or until he turns seventeen, Voldemort cannot touch him there.”

He must see the way she frowns, thinking hard, or he must read her mind, for when he speaks again, he speaks of exactly what she’d been thinking.

“You must be thinking, of course, why I chose to use Petunia rather than you, through whose blood also flows Lily’s.” He becomes sad again, almost apologetic. Darcy very much would like to know why. “You were barely five-years-old and had just witnessed the death of your mother and the destruction of your house. You had experienced the loss of, not only your parents, but of Sirius, as well, someone you loved very much. You were so young, traumatized, afraid. You would not have understood had I explained to you the charm. You would not have understood what the charm would have meant for you in the future.” Dumbledore reaches out a shaky hand and pats Darcy’s knee awkwardly, and she sees a tear slip down his cheek. “I could not place that burden on you, and I would never have presumed to expect so much of just a young girl.”

Darcy feels as though her brain has slowed. Why hadn’t he told her this sooner?

“And yet, you rose to the task magnificently. While Petunia provided you and Harry with a home, however terrible, you provided Harry with a mother’s love, something he would never have received otherwise. Maybe you resented him, blamed him at times—all of us familiar with grief go through these stages—but you cared for Harry like he was your own son, and you never faltered, never waivered, from providing him loving care. Harry is a kind boy, a strong and intelligent boy, and who knows who he would be if you had not been there for him? I look at you now, and I know you are truly your mother’s daughter, and I’m sure others who knew her would agree wholeheartedly with me.”

At this, Darcy can’t keep silent, though she swells with pride. “I didn’t have a choice. Aunt Petunia and Vernon refused to—”

“Of course you had a choice. We always have a choice.” Dumbledore smiles weakly. “You chose to love him, and that has made all the difference in the world. Had I known then, when you were only five, the woman you would grow into—full of love, of a resolve stronger than most people twice your age, dedicated and loyal—I would not have hesitated in regards to using you as the second part of this ancient magic. But old men—even men such as I—make mistakes. And that is one of my greatest mistakes. I am sorry, Darcy, truly.”

“And what of me?” she asks, her voice cracking as she attempts to digest this information. “I . . . I could have left?”

“As long as Harry returns to Privet Drive once a year, he is safe, and so are you within those walls. I did not ask you to go back because of safety issues . . .” Here, Dumbledore looks ashamed, shaking his head and covering his face with his spotted hands for a moment. “I asked you to return due to my own selfish reasons . . . that Harry have someone to watch over him, to love him as a mother would. I trusted you to care for Harry. Can you forgive me?”

Darcy blinks again in surprise. Here is the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the greatest wizard Darcy has ever met, begging her forgiveness, She wants to hate him, to blame him for the loss of her youth—after all, he’s just as much to blame as Peter Pettigrew. Dumbledore had been the one to give the order to bring Darcy with Harry to Privet Drive . . . and yet, for some reason, she can’t find it in herself to refuse his apology, because she understands more than she can say. Despite everything that has happened within the walls of number four, Privet Drive—the abuse, the neglect, the lack of love and familial bond, the fear—Darcy feels that she wouldn’t trade it for the world. It was all for Harry, and she would do anything for Harry.

Upon realizing that Dumbledore is still watching her, Darcy wipes the tears from her eyes and nods. Dumbledore places a hand over his heart, as if under the impression Darcy was going to refuse his apology.

“You are a remarkable young woman,” he sighs, flattening the front of his deep purple robes again. “Forgiveness is a trait that is most overlooked, I fear.”

Just by the way he looks at her, Darcy knows what he’s going to bring up next. A lump forms in her throat, and she wishes there were someone else here beside Dumbledore to hold her hand, to comfort her through this painful conversation. She begins to panic— _it’s my fault Sirius is dead, and he is going to blame me. He’s going to blame me for luring Sirius to the Ministry of Magic._ Why is it her body betrays her so? Darcy feels the tickle of blood on the skin between her nose and upper lip, quickly clapping a hand to her nose, her eyes burning with humiliated tears.

Dumbledore acts quickly, waving his wand and conjuring a handkerchief for her to take. “Please do not think that I fault you for Sirius’ death,” he says gently, as if speaking to a dying child. Darcy looks away from him, down into her lap, holding the cloth to her bleeding nose. “The fault lies with me, and me alone. I knew that you are a woman not meant to be caged, and I had many others tell me so—Sirius, Remus . . . even Severus. But against my better judgement, I left you at Grimmauld Place, wanting nothing but for you to be safe.”

“You just left me there,” Darcy whispers, her chest aching with hurt. “You abandoned me.”

“I did. And I am sorry.” Dumbledore takes his half-moon glasses off to wipe them slowly on his robes. “Had I taken a moment to explain . . . had I trusted you more with sensitive information, you would have never, for a second, left the house. I realize now what keeping you in the dark has done, and I am sorry, and I hope you will find it in you to forgive me.”

“Why? Why didn’t you trust me?” Darcy asks, frowning.

“I feared for you. I feared that, if you knew everything, Voldemort would possess Harry and use that knowledge against us. I feared that Voldemort would attempt to capture you in order to lure Harry to him. And . . . alas . . . it was not Voldemort at all who lured you anywhere to capture you, but the prospect of Harry in danger. It was your love for Harry that lured you to the Ministry, and . . . it was your love that saved him from being possessed by Voldemort in the Atrium.”

Darcy’s cheeks burn with shame and the embarrassed tears continue to fall. She presses the handkerchief hard to her nose, the bleeding slowing.

“Had I listened to the people who knew you best,” he continues. “Had I heeded their advice and trusted you instead of keeping you as a prisoner, you would never have felt the need to go on your own.” Dumbledore exhales loudly again through his nose. “You see, when Harry thought Sirius was being held at the Department of Mysteries, he gave Severus a cryptic warning. Severus checked to make sure that Sirius was indeed at Grimmauld Place, and he assured Severus that you were in your bedroom, safe. But lucky for us, Lucius did not realize we have one more inside man—your friend, Miss Smythe, who was having tea with her parents and Narcissa Malfoy when Narcissa received a message from her husband letting her know Darcy Potter had been subdued and captured. Naturally, she left for Headquarters at once, where Remus, Nymphadora, Emily, Kingsley, Mad-Eye, and Sirius were gathered upon her arrival.”

This makes Darcy dizzy. “Gemma . . . came back for me?”

“Indeed. And Severus, afraid that Harry had gone to the Ministry himself, returned to Headquarters in time to meet with everyone before they left for the Ministry.” Dumbledore strokes his long, long beard. “Severus told Sirius to stay behind, to tell me what had happened, but do you think Sirius—who had been trapped in that house for even longer than you—was going to do nothing while his godchildren were in trouble?”

Darcy shakes her head.

“No. I am sorry, Darcy, for caging you all these years. At Privet Drive, at Hogwarts, at Grimmauld Place. I want you safe, I want you well, and I wanted Harry safe and well. I should never have doubted your affection and dedication to Harry. I never should have believed for even a second that you would run from your duties, when you have always run towards them with the courage of your mother and father.” Dumbledore then gets to his feet, waving his wand again to raise his untouched breakfast tray off the bed. He leaves Darcy’s at her side, though Darcy doesn’t want it. “Shall I send for your brother? I think you have much to talk about.”

“Yes. I’ll talk to him now.”

Dumbledore gives her a polite bow. “One more thing,” he says, framed in the threshold of her bedroom door. “Now that you are no longer a fugitive of the law and Dolores Umbridge will no longer be welcome here, I would like to extend to you an invitation to return next fall. It is completely up to you, and I will not take offense if you refuse.”

Darcy thinks for a moment. It’s not like she has anywhere else to go . . . Grimmauld Place is a place she’d rather never set foot in again, and she isn’t in the mood to start looking for a house to buy. Plus, Harry is here, and her friends, and Snape—she’d miss the dungeon classroom too much, miss the students and teaching and hot meals three times a day. “I’d love to come back next fall.”

Dumbledore smiles at her, his eyes still shining and glossy. “Excellent. If we get the chance before you leave for the summer, I must show you your new quarters. You’ll love them.”

“Oh . . . I don’t mind taking these back, Professor.”

“Nonsense. It is my wish that, next year, you’ll have your own office.”

“My own office?”

Dumbledore nods, his hands held in front of him. “Your own office.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It is still up to you whether or not you’d like the students to call you Darcy or Professor Potter.” Dumbledore smiles at her again, but it’s a small, sad little smile. “The first years will be very glad to see you back, I think. They’ve missed you very much. I’m starting to think you belong here.”

“Yeah,” Darcy sighs, settling back on her pillow and closing her eyes. Her stomach isn’t feeling well, and all she wants to do is sleep, but she can’t sleep, she can’t slip into whatever horrors her nightmares will bring. “Seems like it.”


	64. Chapter 64

“Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“Have you been taking your potions?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Tell me if it starts to hurt.” Madam Pomfrey pushes a little harder on Darcy’s leg, bringing her knee to her chest. She extends Darcy’s lower leg back and forth, straightening it completely, and then taking her foot and rolling it around in a circle. “How are your bruises?”

“Nearly gone.”

“Your head?”

“Fine.”

“Your heart?”

“Broken.” Darcy touches her neck. “My throat hurts.”

“It looks like someone tried to strangle you.”

“Someone did.”

Looking slightly horrified for only a second, Madam Pomfrey sighs. “I had been hoping for a different answer. Yes, your throat probably hurts very much. I can get you something to soothe it, and eat soft foods for a little while.” She brushes her thumb against the bruise on Darcy’s windpipe. Madam Pomfrey hums, glancing up apologetically into Darcy’s face. “A Healer at St Mungo’s is happy to provide you with a wheelchair, should you request it.”

“I don’t want a wheelchair. I want to walk.”

“Well, tingling is a good sign that the potions are working.” Madam Pomfrey releases Darcy’s leg altogether and claps her hands as if to signal that she’s finished. “Give it another . . . two days or so, and you should start re-gaining more feeling in them, and then we can work on walking. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“Have I forgotten how to breathe?”

Madam Pomfrey gives her a stern look, which softens almost immediately. “Good to know you’ve still got your wits about you.” She rises from the bed, fluffing Darcy’s pillows, opening the window again to let some sunlight and fresh air inside. Max flies in almost immediately, perching atop the headboard and burying his face in a wing. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

Darcy shrugs. “A television.”

“Do you know what S-O-L means, Potter?” Madam Pomfrey asks with an exasperated tone. Darcy rolls her eyes, sighing heavily. “I have a wireless in the hospital wing that you can have. I’ll bring it the next time I come to check on you, all right?”

“All right. Can you at least give me a cigarette?”

“Absolutely not, Potter!” Madam Pomfrey seems offended by this, but Darcy whines.

“But Madam Pomfrey, I can't walk! Come on!”

“No, not even if you were on your deathbed. How could you ask that of me? That’s awfully bold of you.” Madam Pomfrey huffs impatiently, smoothing down the folds of her robes. “Your brother is waiting to speak with you. When you finish, take the Sleeping Draught I’ve brought and make sure your brother comes to fetch me or someone to stay with you.”

“Have you drugged me again?” Darcy asks coldly, folding her arms across her chest, privately very satisfied the matron’s cheeks turn slightly pink at this accusation.

“You’ve been through a lot, Potter,” Madam Pomfrey says, in a voice much gentler than Darcy had expected. “I thought, when you walked into the hospital wing with your should freshly scarred from an encounter with a full grown werewolf, that would be the worst situation possible. Then, Professor Snape brings you to me after you try to drown yourself, and I think that may be the worst possible situation. And then you show up after months of being in hiding in the middle of my infirmary looking as if you’ve been to Hell and back, black and blue all over and grieving.” She points at the cup on Darcy’s nightstand. “So drink the damn potion when you’re done.”

Darcy grinds her jaw for a moment, unsure why her anger is flaring now. The last thing she wants to do is snap at Madam Pomfrey, who has taken such good care of her for nearly ten years now, but in a tone laced with venom, she hisses, “Would you just get out?”

“I don’t think I quite appreciate your tone, Potter.” She hitches the front of her robes up in a very dignified manner, leaving the bedroom and closing the door with a snap behind her.

Darcy lets out a muffled scream in frustration, stopping short at the sight of Harry walking in, looking completely defeated. Suddenly, at the sight of him, her problems don’t seem so big anymore. From the moment since she’d woken from her twenty-two hour sleep, Darcy has been dwelling on her pain, on her loss, focusing at the gaping hole in her chest, the ache for home and for Sirius a painful ache such as she’s never known. She hasn’t yet thought of the chasm in Harry’s heart—after all, he’d only been a baby when their parents had died, and surely the grief for him is very fresh and very painful. It’s her job now to teach him how to work through it, but . . . how can she teach him when she doesn’t know how to grieve for Sirius herself?

She reaches for the nightstand drawer, her fingers inches from the handle. “Cigarettes,” she tells Harry, and he obliges without question, pulling out Emily’s soft pack of cigarettes from the drawer and placing one to her lips. “Lighter.” Harry grabs it, flicks it, lights the end of her cigarette without so much a scrunch of his nose. Darcy inhales deeply. “Ashtray.” He places the glass ashtray in her lap. “Thank you.”

“That’ll kill you,” Harry says, but if he’s trying to make a joke, it falls flat. It doesn’t seem he cares one way or the other. “Legs feeling all right?”

“Not feeling at all, actually.” Darcy flicks her thigh, disappointed when she feels nothing. “Madam Pomfrey says it’ll take a few days before they’re strong enough to hold my weight again. Truthfully, it’s a good excuse for me to stay in bed all day. Haven’t even bathed yet. Can you tell?”

Darcy’s lank hair hangs down the sides of her face, tangled at the ends in knots. There’s still blood matted in the back of it. “A little bit,” Harry finally says, his eyes flicking from her hair back to her eyes. “Professor Dumbledore has spoken to you, then?”

“Yes, just earlier, before Madam Pomfrey came.”

“Have you spoken to anyone else?”

“Emily, just briefly, really. She was watching me while I was sleeping.” Darcy finds she can’t look into Harry’s eyes, too ashamed of what she’s done. “I don’t want any other visitors just yet.”

“Lupin’s been asking after you,” Harry continues, looking down at the blanket and picking absently at it. “Emily hasn’t let him in yet. Says you need rest.”

“I’m not ready to see him yet,” Darcy confesses, her stomach flipping. Part of her is privately very afraid that he’ll hate her, that Lupin will blame her for the death of Sirius, even if he doesn’t really mean it. She wouldn’t blame him in the slightest if he did hate her, but Darcy doesn’t want to continue her life knowing he resents her. “Does he seem angry?”

“No,” Harry says quickly. “Just sad, really. And concerned.”

“So . . .” Darcy clears her throat, eager to move off the topic of Lupin. “I don’t suppose you were able to hear the prophecy before it broke?”

“No, I didn’t. But Dumbledore knows. He was the one the prophecy was made to, and I’ve memorized it.” Harry swallows loudly. “You aren’t going to like it.”

“I never assumed it was going to be something good,” she says honestly, looking up at Harry again. Not that she’d been thinking much of the prophecy with everything else that had happened, but from the moment Lucius Malfoy had told her what it was that Voldemort sought, Darcy knew it would not be something enjoyable. “But if it gives us answers, at least that’s something. What is it?”

Harry stumbles over the words a few times. It takes him four times total to remember it all correctly, and he speaks it to her in a slow, sheepish voice. “‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.’”

Darcy watches him fidget upon the bed, pick some fuzz from Darcy’s long, red socks. She doesn’t know why they bring her comfort, for her legs aren’t cold, nor could they be cold in this current state. She allows Harry’s words a few minutes to wash over her in silence as she repeats them again and again. Finally—“I don’t understand.”

“Me either, really. Dumbledore said that Voldemort only knows the beginning part of the prophecy.” Harry’s hand jumps to the scar on his forehead. “This scar . . . Dumbledore also said this is what the prophecy meant by marking me as his equal.”

“What’s the power that Voldemort doesn’t know?”

Harry rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “My heart. Love, according to Dumbledore.” He picks up on Darcy’s minute facial expression, it seems. “You think it’s rubbish.”

“No,” Darcy answers calmly, unsure if it’s the truth or not. “No, I don’t. I think love has carried us pretty far in this world already.” Love is what kept her at Harry’s side all these years at Privet Drive. Love is what brought her back to Hogwarts after she’d graduated. And yet . . . love is what caused Sirius’ death . . . love for Harry had brought her to the Ministry, and Sirius’ love for both Darcy and Harry had caused his demise. Love—something so pure, so wholesome, so important—had caused something so awful, so painful to so many people. “What else did he say? What about the last part? ‘Neither can live while the other survives’?”

“One of us is going to have to kill the other in the end.”

Darcy thinks that, if she had been perfectly healthy and well and not at all suffering, these words and this knowledge would send a thrill of horror through her. “And what do you think about that?”

Harry’s eyes look surprisingly blank behind his glasses. Darcy recognizes the far off look, being very familiar with the experience herself. She’s sure that Harry is back in the Department of Mysteries again, perhaps reliving the very moment Sirius had fallen through the veil, perhaps reliving the moment Lupin had prevented him from running after Sirius, reliving the moment he’d understood what Sirius falling through the veil meant.

It occurs to her then, as Harry searches for an answer to her loaded question, as the cigarette she’s forgotten was in her hand falls in a pile of ash in the ashtray below her fingers, that Darcy must be strong. Her pain should not be visible through his eyes, just as she had masked whatever grief she’d had for her parents when Harry was young. She had answered questions with practiced lies and a straight face, had assured him that she was coping reasonably well despite it being the furthest thing from the truth. It had kept Harry afloat, she thought, but that was before he knew she was lying.

But this is different. It had been easier to pretend when she was younger. It was easier to push the memories aside, since it all came in flashes during nightmares, anyway. Perhaps it’s the fact that Darcy had been looking forward to their reunion with Harry at Grimmauld Place—she and Sirius had put so much stock in being a real family again, that Darcy feels she’s not only lost her godfather, but now all the comforting promises will never be fulfilled. She feels abandoned, betrayed, and even slightly unsurprised. She should have known—should have seen it coming, especially after knowing the quickness with which someone’s life’s candle could be snuffed out. Everyone leaves. It’s a fact of life—or for Darcy it is. That’s how it’s always been and always will be. She should have known not to invest every emotional fiber of her being into Sirius, but she did it anyway. Not that anyone could have stopped her.

Darcy speaks again, suddenly, forgetting even that she’s asked Harry a question. “What does the prophecy even matter? How do we know that it’s even got the power to dictate lives? To dictate fate?”

Harry looks surprised at this. “But we’ve just seen them. All the prophecies. Of course they’re true, aren’t they? How can you say that like we haven’t just been there?”

“How do we know they’re all destined to be fulfilled?” Darcy asks again, glad for a distraction from Sirius. She clings to the subject, wanting with all her heart for it to be true. “How do we know they aren’t just guesses? Every guess ever made by some Seer?”

“But third year—Trelawney—”

“How do you know for sure it wasn’t a coincidence?”

“Everything she prophesied that night came true!” Harry protests, a strain in his voice. “And she was the one who made this prophecy— _the_ prophecy.”

“And if Voldemort hadn’t heard it, hadn’t known of it, what would he have done? He wouldn’t have tried to kill you, would he? Why would he?” Darcy runs a hand through her hair, feeling very sure of herself. “‘I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.’”

Harry only looks at her, with those eyes so like her own. And then, he raises his eyebrows and exhales loudly. “You were . . . bloody brilliant at the Ministry. Escaping like that . . .”

Darcy smiles weakly, blushing. “It was nothing.”

“And all that non-verbal magic,” Harry continues, sounding slightly too enthusiastic to be sincere about it, but Darcy appreciates the abrupt change in subject. “You were incredible. Tell me how you escaped from Malfoy.”

“Technically, I escaped from Nott, but I did get my wand back from Malfoy with my hands tied around my back.”

“You’re lying—”

“I swear it!” Darcy laughs, and it feels like she hasn’t laughed for years. The muscles in her face are stiff and sore. “You should have heard him, should have heard what he was calling me. Little bird and sweetling . . . he thought I was absolutely helpless.”

“But how did you do it?” Harry asks, pushing himself further onto Darcy’s bed, sitting criss-cross with his elbows upon his thighs. He watches Darcy expectantly.

“It was so stupid, really . . .” Darcy does relish in regaling the tale to Harry, detailing how exactly she’d stolen her wand back by something as stupid as stepping on his robes. She tells him about Nott and how she’d broken some of his fingers for touching her.

And for those minutes spent in each other’s company, laughing about Darcy outsmarting Lucius Malfoy, Sirius isn’t dead, and the prophecy doesn’t exist, and they haven’t looked Voldemort in the face just a little while ago, and Darcy’s legs work just fine. For those minutes, the world is right again. And then Darcy remembers something she’d been meaning to ask.

“What was your big news that you’d written about?”

Harry’s eyes go wide. “Hagrid’s got a giant half-brother.” He sighs heavily. “Grawp. He’s been keeping him in the forest, teaching him English and everything.”

Darcy doesn’t think she can come up with a suitable response to this. “You’re joking. Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I really wish I was.”

Harry spins a wonderful tale of this giant, Grawp, and how Hermione had come up with the idea to lead Umbridge into the forest after she’d caught Harry in her fire again. Grawp had known them, recognized them, distracted the centaurs long enough for Harry and Hermione to get away in time, relatively unhurt, but not Umbridge. Though her fate is a sorry one, carried off by centaurs, Darcy doesn’t feel particularly sorry at all. Neither, it seems, does Harry.

“You up for the job, then?” he finally ask, and Darcy shoots him a confused look.

“What job? Finding Umbridge? No, thank you.”

“No.” Harry smiles, but it seems very forced. “Defense Against the Dark Arts. You’d be brilliant.”

Darcy chuckles, shaking her head. “Not in a million years.”

* * *

Darcy gasps in pain. “How’s Remus?”

“Dunno. Locks himself in his rooms all day, doesn’t he?” Emily presses harder on Darcy’s leg, ignoring Darcy’s whines of protest. “Does that really hurt? That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“I’m not that flexible. You’re going to pop my hip right out of place. It’s not meant to go back that far.”

To Darcy’s bewilderment, Emily chuckles. “Do you remember when Oliver dislocated his shoulder while you were fucking him?”

“Yeah, I remember.” Darcy smiles a small, sad smile. “He kept asking me to pop it back in as if he wasn’t inside me.”

“He was a nutter, wasn’t he? Cute boy, though. I quite liked him.”

“You only liked him because he was the best Keeper Gryffindor has ever had.”

Emily shrugs, stretching out Darcy’s leg again and settling it back on the pillow near her feet. “Fair enough. Do you want a cigarette?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, sticking one right between Darcy’s lips and lighting it before taking one for herself. There’s a moment’s pause as they take the first hits, clearing their throats. And then, Emily glances quickly at Darcy and says in a quiet and rather matter-of-fact tone, “I quite like Lupin, as well, I think.”

Darcy laughs, but it’s more a scoff, as if she’s forgotten how to properly laugh. “I’m sorry?”

Emily’s cheeks are slightly pink, but her expression betrays no hint of embarrassment. She ashes her cigarette in a most dignified manner, her back straight. “You need to go talk to him—”

“I can’t just talk to him—”

“Darcy, it’s been two days,” Emily snaps. She doesn’t soften quite as easily as Madam Pomfrey has been lately, but Emily has never been one to back down quickly. “You’ve just said that Harry isn’t ready to talk about Sirius. Lupin is the only other person who knows what you’re going through.”

Darcy doesn’t think that’s entirely true. While she refuses to say so, she thinks of Gemma. While Gemma surely is grieving terribly for Sirius (does she even know what’s happened to him?), she’d only known him for a short time. Her relationship with Sirius (whether they’d slept together just the once or several times) had lacked the history, familiarity, the same kind of love that he’d shared with Darcy or Lupin. But the idea of approaching Lupin now is terrifying, and Darcy would much rather sit down with Gemma and talk about it.

“I can’t, Emily. I can’t speak with him, he’s going to hate me—”

“If he hated you, he wouldn’t be asking to see you—”

“Why haven’t you let him in if he’s been asking?”

Emily puts her cigarette out with a little more force than necessary. “Because I hardly think you’d be happy with me just letting him waltz in here when you’re in this state.”

“You’re right, damn you. You’re fucking right. You’re always fucking right.” Darcy scowls at Emily’s pleased little smile. “Do you have to look so fucking smug?”

This only makes Emily smile wider. “I do love hearing you stroke my ego. I appreciate it, especially since I’m about to have a go at yours.” She scrunches her nose, looking Darcy over. “You need a bath. Your hair is disgusting.”

“You’re the only one who’s been honest about it,” Darcy says with a frown, moving the ashtray from her lap to the nightstand. “You going to lovingly scrub my back for me?”

“Are you not capable of washing yourself? Have you absolutely no dignity left to you?”

Darcy raises an eyebrow. “I threw what was left of my dignity out the window when I fucked my professor.”

Emily blinks in surprise, taking a moment to really comprehend what Darcy’s just said. And then she tilts her head back and lets out a sweet laugh. “It must have meant a lot to you that you’re willing to admit that.”

“It’s not like I realized it in the moment.” Darcy chuckles as Emily holds her wand out, preparing to lift Darcy from the bed. “In that moment, it was just one hundred percent pure, unrestricted, hormonal want.”

“In other words, you were eighteen and horny?”

Darcy nods her head in assent. “I was eighteen and horny and desperately in love.”

“It’s a dangerous thing. Love.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

It feels good to be dumped in the hot bath water, even clumsily like Emily does. The water makes her skin tingle, even her legs feel the warmth of the water, which Darcy takes as a good sign. They float uselessly in front of her, mocking her. She closes her eyes as Emily moves about the small bathroom, but they snap back open as something hard begins to scrub furiously at her skin.

“Ouch!” she shrieks, scowling at Emily as the washcloth presses against the bruises still present on her skin. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m cleaning the blood and days’ worth of sweat off you.” Emily continues to scrub.

“I’m perfectly capable of cleaning myself!”

“Sorry.” Emily gives Darcy the washcloth, her cheeks pink again. “I’ll be in the bedroom, then. Call for me when you need me.”

Darcy almost calls after her, but chooses not to. She scrubs herself pink, each scrub painfully over the almost healed bruised. She scrubs off Nott’s touch, the memory of it coming to her in full force, very vividly. The feeling of his knobbly fingers digging into her hips, the way he’d ground his vile erection against the inside of her thigh, the way he’d slid his mask along the crook of her neck, breathing his foul breath against her skin. When Darcy does see Lupin, she doesn’t want him to be able to smell the stink of Nott’s touch.

Of course she won’t be able to avoid Lupin forever—she’ll have to face him eventually. Her dreams are full of a tearful reunion, falling into each other’s arms, crying into his chest, and fucking him until the sun rises and all the anger has been exhausted from her. Though those are only dreams. Darcy’s decided she’s just going to let him yell at her, let him blame her completely if it makes him feel better in the long run. It’s what she deserves. If Lupin decides to be done with her completely, if he decides he doesn’t want to look at her again, that would be what she deserves.

When Darcy finally calls Emily back into the bathroom for help, she brings news with her.

“Guess who came skulking by your portrait just a few minutes ago?”

“Did you let him in?”

“Should I have?”

“No. I’m tired anyway.”

She’ll sleep tonight. Tomorrow she’ll see him.

* * *

Darcy doesn’t see him Sunday. Feeling begins to come back into her legs, but it’s painful, and it leaves her writhing on the bed, moaning loudly and sweating profusely. Madam Pomfrey spends most of the day with her, as Emily has been called back to work for the day. It’s like hot knives piercing through her skin, through the muscle, through the bone, from her toes all the way up to the middle of her thighs.

“It hurts . . .” she moans, crying with her eyes shut tight, twisting on the bed, as Madam Pomfrey clutches her hand. “Madam Pomfrey . . . please . . .”

“If I keep giving you Sleeping Draughts, you’ll become reliant on them.” Madam Pomfrey frowns, her eyebrows knitting together as Darcy lets out a sob, pain shooting up her calves. The pain makes her heart race. “I can give you something small for the pain, but you’re taking so many potions already . . .”

Darcy grits her teeth, wiping the sweat from her forehead as a dull, throbbing ache begins in the side of her leg. “A cigarette, then . . .” She moans again, trying her hardest to move her leg, to get it more comfortable . . . “A cigarette!”

Madam Pomfrey fumbles with the pack on the nightstand, forcing it between Darcy’s dry lips, lighting it with a shaky hand and a disapproving expression. The expression fades when Darcy cries out again. Pins and needles, burning knives, screws in her skin . . . oh, the pain, the pain, the pain, unable to think of anything but the pain . . . make it stop, let her pass out, let her sleep through it all . . .

“Let’s try again, now,” Madam Pomfrey says soothingly, moving down the bed to touch Darcy’s legs. “We’ll just try for a moment, all right?”

Sweat drips into Darcy’s eyes, making them sting. Even Madam Pomfrey’s gentle touch hurts something terrible. Through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth, Darcy gives a muffled scream, her heart pounding faster. Her body shudders violently. “Don’t touch them,” she tells Madam Pomfrey in a warning voice, the hand holding her cigarette still shaking. “Don’t touch my legs—”

“We have to get them moving, Potter—”

“Don’t touch my legs—”

“I have to move them—” Madam Pomfrey takes Darcy’s calf in her hands, pushing upwards to bend her knee, and Darcy screams. The skin feels so tight, the muscles seem ready to rip in two.

Darcy holds out her cigarette, feeling light-headed. “Hold this, please.” She closes her eyes, rubbing her temples. “I’m going to pass out.”

Madam Pomfrey takes the cigarette from between her fingers and the world around Darcy goes black.

* * *

Monday brings rain. It’s a steady rain, and sky is gray, gray, gray. It’s warm outside, though—Darcy had felt it through the open window as she’d woken up alone. It mirrors her mood, she supposes—gray and bleary, the clouds crying with her, matching her tear for tear. They’re big drops, splashing through the open window, and once, Darcy hears the distant rumble of thunder from beyond the mountains, the first thunderstorm of the summer. If she listens closely, she can even hear the pattering of the rain on the top of the lake, the happy screaming of students dancing and playing outside.

How she wishes she could join them, not a care in the world, getting soaked to the bone only to return to a warm common room to drink some hot cocoa. It reminds her of days spent at Privet Drive as a child, trying to find entertainment while she had a few minutes to be alone. Jumping in puddles outside after a rainy day in a pair of old galoshes, watching the thunderstorms from her open bedroom window, the sound of thunder always luring a very young Harry into her bed. Even now, Darcy craves for the rain to wash everything away—clean rain, purifying her, cleansing all the suffering from her mind and body. _God_ . . . what she would do to feel clean again . . .

Without Emily—or even Madam Pomfrey—around, the room is too big, too empty, too quiet, save for Darcy’s sniffling and the pitter-patter of the refreshing rain on the window. It blows the drapes around, the soft breeze that comes with an impending storm. A storm to match her mood. A storm to match the ache in her heart. A storm to match her fierce anger.

The night had been long. The pain in her legs had persisted, the worst pain Darcy has ever known. Madam Pomfrey had continued to stretch her legs against the pain, and Darcy had passed out several times, each time dreaming the same dream—stuck in the rubble of her home, the beam trapping her legs beneath—the pain, the pain, the pain . . . and then she’d woken up after a few hours’ sleep and Madam Pomfrey had returned and Darcy had been able to stand, to take small steps, to shuffle her way towards the bathroom, to use the toilet by herself. But without someone with her, to guide her, to allow her to lean upon them, Darcy stays bedridden, her legs falling asleep and waking, becoming restless and aching.

Madam Pomfrey brings her a late lunch, asking if she’d like company. Darcy declines lunch and declines her company.

“You’ve hardly eaten since you’ve arrived here,” Madam Pomfrey says, placing a tray of food on Darcy’s lap. “Here, I brought you yesterday’s _Prophet_. I thought you might want to see it.”

Darcy sighs, taking the Sunday Prophet in her hands to read the headline:

**He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Returns**

“I don’t want this.” Darcy tosses the paper back into Madam Pomfrey’s lap. “What will be written in there that I don’t already know?”

“I thought you might like something to read.”

“A book would be nice,” Darcy retorts, a little colder than she’d intended. She points to the corner of her bedroom. “I’ve got about a hundred stacked over there. What makes you think I want to read this rubbish in the _Prophet_?”

“Very well.” Looking flustered, Madam Pomfrey hurries over to the stack of books. “Which one? Did you have one in mind?”

“I don’t care.”

“How about this one?” Madam Pomfrey picks up an old and battered book. “ _The Picture of Dorian Gray_. That sounds interesting.”

“Great. Can I please have it and be alone now?”

“Maybe you should have some company now. If you fall while walking and can’t get up, how will someone know to come fetch you? If you need help taking a bath or going to the bathroom, how will anyone, it’ll do you no favors being alone—”

“Nonsense. She won’t be alone.”

Darcy tenses. She hadn’t heard the portrait swinging open or the door closing to her room over the sound of the rain and Madam Pomfrey’s voice, but Lupin is there in the narrow doorway to her room, leaning against the threshold as if he belongs there. Darcy takes the book from Madam Pomfrey’s hands warily, clutching it to her chest. “What are you doing here?” Darcy asks softly.

“Since no one’s been able to give me a proper status report, I thought I would come by to see you for myself.” He gives Madam Pomfrey a forced, polite smile that seems almost a grimace. “You have my word that Darcy will be in good hands while you’re gone.”

Madam Pomfrey gives Darcy a look reminiscent of one she’d given her so long ago, when Lupin had come to visit after scarring her shoulder. Darcy only nods, and the matron collects her things and leaves. Lupin lingers at the foot of the bed for a moment until he hears her leave.

“May I sit?” he asks her, motioning towards the bed.

“Yes.”

He sits closer than Darcy thought he would, at her side, his back brushing up against her legs. The contact makes her leg burn hot, which she takes as a good sign.

“Why are you here?” Darcy asks again.

“Emily has been adamant that she be the only one to be with you, caring for you. Not that she’s been cruel about it, but she wanted to be the one responsible for you, so I let her.” Lupin’s tone is not unkind, but it’s very professional, very business-like. Up close like this, Darcy notices that he doesn’t look much better than when she’d seen him last. He looks ill, his complexion pasty and bloodless, those shadows under his eyes making him look close to death. “Dumbledore has been kind enough to secure me a bed here, but there’s no need if you have no desire to speak to me. It’s been three days and you haven’t asked after me. Would you rather I leave?”

“I—” Darcy falters under his scrutinizing gaze, finding it difficult to look him in the eyes, but forcing herself to do it anyway. “I meant to talk to you yesterday, but I . . . the pain was so bad. Ask Madam Pomfrey, I swear it, she was with me all day. She was helping me walk.”

As the wind blows through the open window, a scent carries from Lupin to Darcy’s nose—a strong smell of brandy. She feels so sorry for him then, and any instinct she’d felt to cry in his arms vanishes completely from her. She must be strong for him, like she’d been strong for Harry, like he had been strong for Harry. There is no one to wipe Lupin’s tears, no one to hold him, no one for him to feel vulnerable around—that person that was his source of comfort is gone now, taken from him just as he’d been taken from Darcy.

Darcy reaches out for his hand. He flinches away almost instinctively and she retracts her hand, blushing. After a moment’s pause, Lupin reaches for her hand again, playing with her fingers, unable to commit to the actual act of holding hands itself. Darcy doesn’t mind; she watches his index finger lightly trace the curvature of her knuckles, brushing up and down each of her long fingers, his gaze fixed very intently upon their hands.

“I asked after you, I swear it. I was just so afraid that you’d hate me . . . that you’d look at me and feel nothing but hatred.”

Lupin furrows his brow. “But why would I hate you?”

Darcy’s mouth feels suddenly very dry. “You know why.”

To her surprise, he smiles, scoffing in disbelief, soft eyes shining with tears. “Is that what you thought?” Lupin scoffs again, taking her face in his hands and kissing her forehead and hair several times. Darcy blinks in surprise. “You beautiful, _beautiful_ , brave, foolish girl.” His hands fall back to his lap and he becomes very somber again within a second. “Can I—can I sit beside you?”

Darcy licks her lips, clearing her throat. “Sure.”

Lupin hesitates, but slips off the bed, moving around to the other side of the bed and climbing back on. He sits shoulder to shoulder with Darcy, resting his back against the tall headboard, and for a few minutes they sit in silence together, listening to the summer rain. Lupin resumes his playing with her fingers, tracing the lines on her palm, lining up their fingertips, all the while never looking into her face. Darcy doesn’t want to say anything. She wants to stay here forever, in this understanding silence, the rain still the only sound in the background.

“I remember the days that followed your parents’ death. I dream of them still.” Finally, he laces their fingers together, holding their hands in front of his face as if admiring how perfectly their fingers twine together. “Unsure whether or not I wanted to live or die. I just wanted the suffering to end.” Lupin swallows hard, and Darcy feels the first tears begin to sting her eyes. “Why did I still breathe air while James and Lily were gone? Peter, dead . . . an undeserving and gruesome death, I thought. Sirius, locked away, a false friend, a traitor, a spy. I had nothing, no one.”

The rain becomes heavier, coming faster. Small drops, drops that come in through the window and spatter the floor.

“Even now, I ask myself: why Sirius? Why not me, who has nothing? No family, no home, no money. Why must I suffer again?” He runs his free hand through his hair, looking more broken than Darcy’s ever seen him. “And then the strangest thought occurred to me, just last night, as I lay awake hoping that you’d ask for me.”

When Darcy speaks, her voice is hoarse, as if she hasn’t used it for months. “And what was this strange thought?”

“I have you this time,” he says simply, looking at her with a sad smile. “Maybe this is why I still live. Maybe I still breathe air for you.”

“Yes,” Darcy breathes, squeezing his hand. “You have me this time.”

She meets his eyes, and they look each other over for a few moments. The rain comes down in sheets, thunder rumbles a little closer, the sky becomes darker. A storm to echo her mood, to mirror her angry, broken heart. Lupin is so defeated—there is no stormy anger in him now, only grief and defeat, a shadow of the man she’d first seen upon the Hogwarts Express, beaten down by life. Disaster after disaster after disaster, tragedy after tragedy after tragedy. A life full of loss and painful surprises and revelations—a life like hers.

“Do you want me to close the window?” Lupin whispers, and he does at once when she nods. The rain is noisier against the glass panes, hammers upon stone. A flash outside the window, a clap of thunder as the storm moves in over Hogwarts. He watches it for a moment, rubbing his scruffy chin, deep in thought. “I have to return home soon. I need time to think . . . to process everything that’s happened . . .”

“But you’re not leaving now!” Darcy protests, frowning deeply.

Lupin turns his head from the storm raging outside to look at her again. “You’d rather I stay?”

“Just for a little, if you want,” she confesses quietly. “Stay the night with me, please. The nightmares will come—I know they will!—and I’m afraid to wake up alone.” When he turns his head back to look out the window, Darcy blushes. “If you’d rather go, I . . . I’d understand why you wouldn’t want to stay with me.”

“Because you think I blame you?”

The blunt honesty of his words makes a powerful wave of hatred wash over her—not hatred towards Lupin, but towards herself. _My fault, my fault, my fault_. “Yes. Why wouldn’t you?” she asks. “If I weren’t so stupid, I would have stayed in my room like a good girl.”

“We all think that if we’d done something different, he’d be alive.” Lupin doesn’t seem to take his own advice at face value. The uncertainty lingers in her face, she can see it. “If we had told you what was waiting at the Department of Mysteries, would you have been so quick to go? If I had tried harder to convince Sirius to stay, would he have? If we had all been a better friend to Sirius, would he have been put in that position at all? Would he have been a free man, and not a prisoner of his own home?”

Darcy’s head hurts. It had been her direct actions that caused Sirius’ death and she knows it . . . so why is Lupin here, pretending that Sirius’ death could have been prevented nearly fifteen years ago if events had unfolded differently? Why is he pretending that it’s everyone’s fault and no one’s fault? Why is he pretending like he doesn’t blame her?

“How are you feeling?” he asks, and it breaks her heart.

“Don’t do that,” Darcy whispers, trying very hard not to cry. “Don’t feel like you have to . . . pretend for me.”

“Pretend for you,” Lupin repeats under his breath. He pauses, looking very intently at her, as if trying to comprehend her words. And then he releases her hand, slumping down against the headboard to better position himself beside her. But he keeps sliding, down, down, down, until his cheek is resting nicely against her stomach, lifted up with each intake breath and then easing down with each soft exhale. His fingers scrabble at her shirt, tangling in the fabric to hold something steady, something real. His eyes flutter closed, and his breathing becomes more uneven, ragged. “Read to me, my love.”

“Read what?” she asks, combing her fingers through his hair, unsure if he’s going to stop her or not. He doesn’t.

“Anything, as long as it’s your voice reading it.”

Darcy glances at the book still in her other hand. She opens it, still stroking his hair, and when she begins to read, pretends not to notice the way that he clings to her as if letting go means certain death, pretends not to notice the way her shirt grows damp where his cheek is. “‘The studio was filled with the rich odor of roses, and when the summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden there came through the open door the heavy scent of lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink flowering thorn’ . . .”

He falls asleep that way after a short while, two or three chapters into the book. Darcy continues to read softly to him even as he sleeps fitfully, his fingers clenching tight to her shirt before he relaxes again. Sometimes his breathing comes in deep, drawn breaths, sometimes they’re quick things just short of panic. And yet whenever Darcy stops reading to smooth his hair back, to rest her palm between his shoulder blades, to stroke his rough cheek, he seems to fall back into easy sleep, the bad dreams gone at her touch.

She wonders what Lupin dreams of—if he sees Sirius falling through the veil again, as she does, or if he dreams of the kind of limbo he’d been in during the days following her parents’ death. She wonders if he still feels the same desire now to leave the Earth, to leave everything behind—the hurt, the suffering, the pain, the grief, all feelings that Darcy wants to go away forever, feelings she feels she’s known forever—or if he’d ever tried to (why hadn’t she ever asked? how do you ask someone if they’ve ever tried to kill themselves in the first place?). She wonders if he dreams of her own death as much as she dreams of his. Maybe one day she’ll ask what he dreams of, for the question is one she’s burning to know the answer to, but not today. Not tonight.

Eventually, Darcy does coerce him to move up the bed and lay on the pillow, waiting until he falls fully asleep again until she decides to risk a trek to the bathroom. She just needs to move, to walk, to splash some water on her face, to look at herself in the mirror. She needs to see that she is real, for the past few days, Darcy’s felt very removed from situations, like it’s someone else lying in bed with Lupin, someone else whose legs hurt with extraordinary pain.

Upon standing, Darcy wobbles on her feet. Her weight feels too much for her poor legs, but she feels her way around the room on those shaky legs, holding herself up with the dresser or the nightstand or the bathroom door. It’s slow going, each step hardly a shuffle. Crossing through the bathroom door, Darcy’s knee locks and she stumbles against the sink, the porcelain glancing a blow off her forehead. Immediately, her head gives a painful throb and she shoves her fist into her mouth, muffling a scream, hoping Lupin will sleep through it. Seated with her back against the bathtub, Darcy presses her fingertips hard into her forehead, breathing heavily, cursing herself and her damn legs.

It’s the sound of her sobs that attract Lupin, after several failed attempts at getting up. She hates herself for being caught in such a humiliating position, but he kneels down beside her at once, helping her into a full sitting position, her shoulders aching from being pressed against the tub.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes.

“No, don’t be sorry.” Lupin holds out a hand for her to grasp, but he doesn’t move to pull her up. “When you’re ready.”

“What if I just ask you to leave me here to die?”

“I’d say that’s very melodramatic,” he answers calmly, giving her head a kiss, right where the sink had cracked her skull. Darcy is too grateful for his kiss to be annoyed. “The bed is a much more comfortable place to die, and you’d even have someone to die with you should you come back.”

“‘To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.’” Darcy blushes furiously, gripping his hand tighter.

“What poem is that?”

“It’s not, technically. I’ve been listening to Emily’s depressing fucking music for weeks.” Darcy releases his hand, laughing in spite of herself, running her hand down her face. “There is one song I’m rather partial to. ‘I had a really bad dream, it lasted twenty years, seven months, and twenty-seven days’.”

“How fitting.” Lupin looks down at her, torn between smiling and looking away, it seems. He chews the inside of his cheek, grinds his teeth, clears his throat. “Not as good as, say . . . Shakespeare, though.”

“If you’d like a poem, you need only ask.” Darcy leans back against the tub, resting her head against the lip. “No games right now.”

“No games.” His cheeks turn slightly pink. “Come back to bed, Darcy.”

“Okay.”

Darcy allows Lupin to help pull her to her feet, one hand on the small of her back, holding her steady to him, the other still holding her own hand. She looks up into his face, trying to be strong for him, trying to pretend for him, wanting him to think there no reason for her to need comforting, but the sight of him makes her cry.

“I’m sorry,” she cries, shame overwhelming her. “I’m sorry—”

“It’s not your fault.” Lupin seems on the brink of saying something else—words of comfort or bitterness, she doesn’t know—but he doesn’t speak again. Instead, he take her wrists gently and leads them around his middle. Darcy holds him, resting her cheek against his shoulder, closing her eyes as one hand finds the nape of her neck, the other wrapping around her shoulders.

She hadn’t realized something so simple could bring her such comfort. Darcy remembers years ago, after the Quidditch match the dementors had crashed. Soaking wet, Darcy had left the hospital wing where Harry was to the warm office of then Professor Lupin. He had held her for the first time that day, very hesitantly and in a rather unsure way, but the same thing that comforted her then comforts her now as he holds her—familiarity.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Darcy whispers, the admission surprising even herself.

Lupin is quiet for a moment. “Do you want to come home with me? We could leave in the morning, whenever you’re ready.”

It’s a bold question, and perhaps he realizes it. Darcy can nearly feel his embarrassment radiating off him. She still appreciates the sentiment. “I should be with Harry,” she says, this time not as uncertain about her decision. “Will you write to me?”

“Twice a day, if that’s what you want.” Lupin doesn’t seem at all dejected by her answer, but maybe it’s because he’s so defeated already. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

The ache in her legs worsens when she lies back down in bed, but she says nothing. He’s able to help position Darcy on her side, facing him, and he mimics her. The rain is still pounding against the window, moonlight pouring in the panes, and it seems louder than before, like the storm is directly over her bedroom.

Yet, besides the rain, Darcy finds everything too quiet. Perhaps it’s the lack of buzzing in her mind when Lupin touches her face. For a moment, it is only him, her, and the rain, fingertips tracing her sharp jaw, a thumb brushing over her cheekbone, touching her with a touch that seems afraid to be too rough, afraid that she will shatter. Flesh just barely ghosting above her own, close enough to give her chills, to make her skin warm where he’s touched it—distant enough to make her crave more. She needs to be touched, to have that contact, to ground her.

Lupin finally places the side of his long index finger just beneath her chin, tilting her face up. His thumb just barely brushes the swell of her bottom lip and the world around her disappears. For this moment, and all the others to come while he lays at her side, Darcy is okay. She’s all right, she’s sure of it. The prophecy, Sirius’ death, Harry’s fate . . . the past, the future . . . here, now, in the present, Darcy will allow herself to enjoy this comfort. She will allow herself to be selfish for just a night, just to remind herself that there is something in this world still good, still worth her time and energy, even with all the bad things.

When he begins to start dozing off, he pulls Darcy closer. She settles onto his chest, one of his arms draped around her. Darcy holds him tight, afraid to let go. Part of her can’t believe it’s possible to be so at peace after everything that’s happened. Something is so different this time than last, and it has nothing to do with the differing relationships that Darcy had with her parents versus her godfather, and everything to do with what Lupin had told her earlier.

_I have you this time._

Who did she have last time? No one. Not Harry, who was too young to understand, or Aunt Petunia. She didn’t have friends until Hogwarts, and that was nearly six years after her parents died . . . six years to process grief in the worst way, by filing it away and storing those memories in the deepest and darkest corner of her heart and brain. But this time . . . this time she is not alone, and she has more people she loves than she knows what to do with. Harry is older now, he understands, is hurting with her, but Harry has never been one to voice his emotions with confidence like Darcy’s able to, he’s never felt emotion as deeply as Darcy has—or that she knows of. Gemma’s here this time, too—Gemma who had loved Sirius, likely in the same way she loves Lupin. Gemma had slept with Sirius and cared about him and considered him family. But Darcy can’t see Gemma empathizing with her very well—Gemma, who is cold and calculating and intimidating at times, who resorts to anger first, a ruthless anger than scares even Darcy.

But Darcy has Lupin, and that in itself is an indescribable comfort. His understanding and sympathetic nature had drawn Darcy to him immediately, his willingness to show emotions and be vulnerable around her. Here is a man who understands her without having to ask for an explanation—she doesn’t have to confide in him her feelings, her anguish, because he knows and he understands and he feels the same and can show that to her. Here is a man who loves her, a man that she loves—two people craving that familiarity, affection and intimacy from each other, hoping it will slowly fill the hole in their hearts. What she wouldn’t have given to have someone like him in her life almost fifteen years ago.

She starts when Lupin stirs. He inhales deeply and rubs his eyes, his one arm still wrapped around her. “A poem, my love,” he breathes, almost pleading, “to help me back to sleep.”

Darcy casts about for a poem to recite in her half-asleep state. “‘If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain, or help one fainting robin unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain.’”

Rain, rain, rain, _tap-tap-tap-tap-tap_ , the clocks in the Time Room—

“Who is that?”

“Emily Dickinson.” Darcy closes her eyes and blushes in spite of herself. “Is it all right?”

He hums. “More than all right.”

Darcy swallows. “Are you all right?”

He doesn’t answer for a very long time. Darcy thinks he’s gone back to sleep, when he speaks again. “I will be.”


	65. Chapter 65

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg. I’m almost done with this. Omg.

“I’m glad to see you’re eating, Potter, and out of that bed, no less. If I’d know all it would take is to bring Remus around, I would have done it a lot sooner.”

Darcy allows Madam Pomfrey to brush her long, wet, red hair from behind the back of the sofa. She’s gentle enough, making sure not to pull too hard when her comb encounters a particularly difficult tangle. She’d tried fussing over Lupin, as well, when she had first arrived in the morning to find them both in bed together, but Lupin had continued to dance around her, avoiding her touch, making sure Madam Pomfrey couldn’t see him too clearly up close, until finally he’d thrown his hands up in surrender and growled, “I’m almost forty! I’m not a little boy anymore!” Since then, Darcy hasn’t said a word as Madam Pomfrey fusses over her, knowing it’s a terrible idea to insist on her own care in front of the matron.

With someone else in the room with them, the tension has returned. It seems Lupin is no longer comfortable being so open and so honest and so vulnerable with an outsider amongst them—even if the outsider is only Madam Pomfrey. Not that Darcy’s said much of anything, either. Madam Pomfrey had asked how she was feeling (“Fine.”), how her legs were (“Fine.”), how her throat felt (“Fine,” Darcy had said, noticing the dangerous and angry look Lupin had given her throat). These answers were not to Madam Pomfrey’s liking, however, and she’d let Darcy know it.

“Professor Dumbledore would like to take some time today to show you where you’ll be living next fall,” Madam Pomfrey continues, loosely braiding Darcy’s hair over the sofa. Her tone is gentle, as if speaking to a dying person who doesn’t realize they’re dying. _Am I dying? It feels like it_. “He says you’re to be given an office . . . isn’t that exciting? It will be like you’re a real teacher.”

Darcy bristles at these words. “I _am_ a real teacher.”

Madam Pomfrey ignores her, and Darcy returns to the lukewarm breakfast on her lap. Lupin had finished his a while ago, now lounging beside Darcy on the sofa, distractedly reading _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ from where they’d left off just last night. Darcy sees his eyes flit every so often to the margins to read over her notes as if this is a regular occurrence while reading a book. It hardly phases him. It seems habit for him. Darcy loves it, loves everything about it, from the way he turns the thin pages of the books to the way he holds it with only one of his large hands to how quickly his eyes move left and right and left and right and left right, the fire making his eyes glow nearly golden.

“Your brother and his friends plan to visit you as soon as I let them know you’re feeling better. Granger and Weasley . . . but of course you know that . . . who else would it be?” Madam Pomfrey gives a forced laugh. “Now, you mind Miss Granger, Potter. She’s not completely healed yet.”

“What do you think I’m going to do to her? Insist on a duel upon crossing the very threshold?”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be seeing anyone if you’re feeling particularly vindictive,” Madam Pomfrey snaps, and Darcy rolls her eyes, feeling like a child immediately afterwards. “However, if you change your mind and decide to be a bit more pleasant, I could let them know you’re up for visitors.”

With a mouthful of scrambled egg, Darcy says rather unenthusiastically, “Sounds fantastic. You can go fetch them now, then.”

“When I deem you all right, then I will fetch them.” Madam Pomfrey lets go of Darcy’s now plaited hair, and she can tell the matron’s lips are pursed without having to turn around and look. “Now, Professor Snape requests—if you’re feeling up to it by then—that you join him for dinner tonight in the Great Hall.”

“No,” Darcy hisses over her shoulder. Lupin looks at her for a moment, seemingly rather pleased with himself before returning to his book. “I don’t want to see Professor Snape and I don’t want to go into the Great Hall, so you can tell him I’m not feeling up to it and to leave me alone.”

Madam Pomfrey opens her mouth to protest, but Lupin places a hand on Darcy’s forearm. “Darcy,” he says in a low voice, raising his eyebrows, looking sympathetic enough. “You’re being rude. Don’t shoot the messenger, all right?”

“Fine, then I’ll shoot the person who decided a message needed to be delivered.” Darcy’s heart begins to race in her chest, a dangerous sign she knows means that her anger is threatening to spill over. “You can tell Professor Snape that I’m not interested in seeing him until he learns to be honest with me. He can come here when he’s ready to apologize—”

“For Heaven’s . . .” Madam Pomfrey rubs her temples exasperatedly, shooting a cold look at Lupin, who’s decided to keep quiet while Darcy abuses Snape. He focuses more intently on his book, not really reading the pages, and the scene reminds Darcy so much of Snape’s memory in the Pensieve that she grabs the book right out of Lupin’s hand and throws it across the room. Lupin exhales loudly, grinding his teeth, looking as if he very much understands why exactly Darcy’s just done what she’s done. “ _Potter_! There’s no reason to be angry with either Professor Snape or with Remus, so you can sulk here without any visitors at all until you’ve decided to shelf the attitude.”

“Thanks, mum,” Darcy retorts coldly, nearly growling at her in frustration. “You going to lock me in here until I’ve calmed down, too? Because that seems more of an Aunt Petunia thing to do.”

Madam Pomfrey’s face is flushed with anger. “Forgive me for trying to take care of you after a traumatic experience—”

“I don’t need you to pick my fucking brains, all right? I need you to fix my fucking legs so I can walk at my own leisure and not have to wait for someone to help me use the toilet. Can you do that?” Darcy gives Lupin a sideways glance. His eyes are closed and he does his best to cover his embarrassed face. “Poor traumatized, orphan Darcy Potter doesn’t need every adult within a five mile radius to assume the role of my mother. I already did this by myself when I was five, and I turned out just fine without some sorry old woman taking me under her wing—”

“ _Just fine_?” Madam Pomfrey asks, outraged. Darcy turns back towards the fire, folding her arms over her chest. Lupin takes her plate off her lap, probably in fear of it flinging across the room, as well. “Potter, you came to me skin and bones with signs of abuse written all over your body, complete with nightmares, nosebleeds, panic attacks, repressed memories that unleashed a world of terror when remembered even in the smallest bits, and not a single adult that you were close with that could be considered responsible for you. Is that what you call ‘fine’?”

Darcy blushes, growling like some kind of wild animal. She doesn’t want Lupin to hear this—the story of the messed up little girl she used to be. She doesn’t want him to know the extent of how bad it was, but Madam Pomfrey shows no inclination of stopping.

“If you hadn’t been Darcy Potter, I would have sent your case over to St Mungo’s to have someone properly examine you right away.”

“And why didn’t you, then?”

“Because I was not going to be responsible for publicizing the details of your mental health, Potter. Because I thought—foolishly, it seems—that with a little help from your friends, you’d learn to heal.” Madam Pomfrey inhales deeply, trying to control her temper. “But, no. You grew up with a proclivity for alcohol and cigarettes, thinking it better to go to sleep drunk or to further repress your memories. Fifteen-years-old and barely a functioning alcoholic! That is not healthy coping, that is not healing.” With the paperback book Darcy had thrown across the room, Madam Pomfrey swats the top of Darcy’s head with it. “And it is not _just fine_!”

“Is this what we’re going to do, then?” Darcy asks, making to stand before remembering her legs are completely healed. Her legs remain stretched out in front of her, propped upon the table. The result is a strange motion like a fish out of water, a tingling in her calves. “We’re going to talk about my coping mechanisms? What would you have done in my place? You don’t know what it was like for me at Privet Drive—I didn’t have the luxury of applying healthy coping mechanisms. That was all about survival, not _healing_.”

“I tried to help you, Potter, and you consistently refused any help from me,” Madam Pomfrey counters, moving around the sofa to seat herself in an armchair. It looks as if she hasn’t slept in days, but Darcy finds she doesn’t really care much. At least Madam Pomfrey’s sleep is not plagued with nightmares. “I offered you counseling with myself and several different teachers, with a Healer from St Mungo’s who was willing to come to you, and you turned me down. I offered to listen to your grievances, and you turned me down. I offered to look into Muggle medicine for you, but you refused. You were offered resources and help, so do not pretend otherwise.”

Wiping angrily at her teary eyes, Darcy forces herself to keep looking straight ahead, not to look into anyone’s eyes or faces. “I don’t want to talk about this, please,” she rasps, her tone a stark contrast from the angry and cold one she’d used only a minute or so ago.

Madam Pomfrey seems to soften at the sight of Darcy crying softly. “Remus, could you give us a moment alone? Just a moment. You can wait right outside.”

“I should begin to gather my things, anyway. If I don’t do it now, I don’t think I ever will.” Lupin touches Darcy’s lower thigh and squeezes, perhaps a little harder than he might usually. She feels only a gentle touch, fingertips digging into her skin. “I’ll be back when I’m finished.”

Darcy nods at him, allowing him to kiss her forehead before taking his leave. Madam Pomfrey watches on, a small, sweet, sad little smile on her old face. Darcy glances sheepishly at her before looking back into the fire.

“Why won’t you just accept help, Potter?” Madam Pomfrey asks gently, resting her elbows upon her thighs, propping her chin atop her knuckles. “Don’t tell me you don’t need it. I’ve watched you since you were just a first year, struggling with the knowledge that an entire world existed that you forced yourself to forget about. Your inability to process your grief has led to an instability, recklessness, a dependency on alcohol . . . just swallow your damn pride, Potter, and take the offered help.”

Darcy shakes her head slowly, looking into Madam Pomfrey’s eyes. “I don’t want your help.”

“Is it the stigma you’re afraid of? There’s no shame in it.” Madam Pomfrey leans forward, her voice nearly a soothing whisper. “It does not make you weak to seek help. It is a very brave thing to admit you are not well, that you need help. Don’t you think Harry would want you to get better?”

_Harry_. “No.” If she could, Darcy would stand at this point. “ _No_. Harry can’t—Harry can’t know that I’m not as well as he thinks. No.”

Madam Pomfrey gets to her feet slowly, lifting Darcy’s feet off the table and helping to reposition her into a more comfortable position. “Look, Potter, this summer, I want you to think about it. Nothing needs to happen while you’re at Privet Drive, but if you need me, I’d like for you to owl me.”

Darcy thinks this is rather agreeable. Of course she won’t owl Madam Pomfrey, but she nods anyway. “Fine.”

“If you would like, I think we could possibly find some time next year for you to meet with a Healer, just a consultation in the privacy of your rooms, or in your office, or wherever you’re comfortable.” Madam Pomfrey shrugs casually. “No one would have to know unless you wanted them to know, and I have a hard time believing either Harry or Remus would ever think differently of you for making progress.”

Darcy only blinks. “Good- _bye_ , Madam Pomfrey.”

“By the way, you have a visitor, Potter.”

“If it isn’t Harry or his friends, please tell them I’m not well. I don’t feel very social right now.”

Madam Pomfrey opens the door, but doesn’t respond. Curious and slightly irritated, Darcy turns as far as she can to look at the doorway, her heart leaping in her throat at the scene set before her. Gemma’s there—Gemma’s there, standing impressively in the rounded threshold, a good foot and a half taller than the top of her head. She looks different now, but maybe it’s the way half of her hair is pulled back out of her face, giving her the appearance of a sixteen-year-old girl. Or maybe it’s the fact that her pretty face is devoid of any makeup, something that Darcy hadn’t realized she was so used to. She’s dressed so simply, in a silky white blouse tucked into high-waisted, black trousers that elongate her legs. Over her shoulders is a patched, army green jacket, looking much more worn and ragged than the clothes beneath it, looking much more like something Darcy might wear. But the look suits Gemma much more, she thinks, than any of the fancy dresses or adult fashion she typically adorns.

But besides this, there’s something about Gemma that Darcy’s never seen before. When Madam Pomfrey leaves the two girls alone, Gemma takes a few steps forward. Her eyes are open wide, dark eyes soft and warm and full of comfort. There’s a natural, sad beauty about her. Darcy has always found Gemma’s beauty slightly arrogant, haughty, mocking—but not this, not whatever look this is that grabs Darcy forcefully by the heart and clenches tight. It seems she’s undergone an entire physical and mental and emotional change since she’s been gone, and it seems that change has spit out a young, doe-eyed, naive girl, something Darcy knows Gemma has never been, even when she was young.

“Hey,” Gemma rasps, and Darcy’s first, immediate thought is— _does she know_?

“Hi.” All anger at Gemma suddenly fades. There’s no more room in Darcy’s mourning and grieving heart for anger towards her. Darcy is so happy that she’s here, that she’s come back, that she cares enough to check in on her. “If it wouldn’t take me twenty minutes to reach you, I’d give you a hug.”

A reluctant smile tugs at the corners of Gemma’s lips. With her usual grace, Gemma walks over to the sofa, sitting in the exact seat Lupin had occupied until just a little bit ago. She looks Darcy over, reaching to tuck back her dark hair behind her ears out of habit before realizing there’s none there to push away. Slowly, her hand lowers into her lap. “I never should have left that night,” Gemma whispers, her eyes already shining with tears, trying very hard to keep them from falling. “I should have turned around as soon as I set foot outside the front door.”

Darcy shakes her head, already crying, even as Gemma seems to blink back her own tears.

“Can I smoke in here?”

“Yeah. Can I have one?”

Gemma gives her one, and they don’t talk for a moment as they smoke in silence. And then Gemma runs her hand down her face. “Em told me what happened. I’m so sorry, Darcy. I told Sirius to stay—I pleaded with him—I never meant to—”

Just like that, the tears come. Gemma covers her face when she cries, but Darcy doesn’t bother. She isn’t ashamed of her tears—she has every reason to cry, and Gemma must be so used to her tears by now that they must hardly phase her. Darcy can’t even be angry with Gemma. Of course it’s not her fault that Sirius is dead, just like it wasn’t Lupin’s, and it wasn’t Harry’s.

Gemma lowers her hands from her face, and it’s clear why she isn’t wearing makeup. If she were, it’d be smeared all over her face, gone from her puffy eyes. “Was he in pain?”

Darcy finds she doesn’t mind Gemma talking to her about Sirius, asking questions. Darcy doesn’t want to keep secrets from Gemma. “No,” she whispers, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t think so. It was quick.”

“Good. Good . . .” Gemma looks off into the fire, glossy-eyes.

It’s quiet again, and Darcy puts her cigarette out in the ashtray Madam Pomfrey had reluctantly supplied her with. “Did you love him?”

Gemma scoffs, as if the idea is ridiculous, but then she softens, pulling her feet underneath her. Darcy feels rather useless with her aching legs. “Of course I loved him,” she confesses. “He was family. He was everything I ever wanted to be . . . brave enough to do the things I’ve only ever dreamed of . . . how could anyone who’d really known him not love him?” She goes quiet for a moment, and Darcy doesn’t fill the silence. It seems as if Gemma is thinking carefully about what she’s going to say. “Sometimes I would drop by, just to visit after work, and he’d always coerce me to have a drink when it was just him there . . . and who was I to say no?”

Darcy finds it odd that Gemma can laugh right now, even with tears in her eyes.

“We’d sit there and talk for hours sometimes,” Gemma continues. “About our families, our childhoods . . . all the things we wanted to do with our lives . . . it reminded me of you and Remus, how you described it to me in the bathtub that night.” She smiles again at Darcy, not bothering to hide the tears that fall down her cheeks. “I felt that Sirius understood me in a way that no one’s ever done before, and I understood him. I loved going to that house. I know he’d think I’m mad, but I fucking _loved_ that house. I loved walking through the front door to see who’d I be spending time with that evening.”

With a shaky hand, Gemma lights a new cigarette with her burning butt, throwing the finished one in the ashtray.

“All the fucking tension and anxiety just seemed to melt away when it was the four of us, seated around the fire in the drawing room.” Gemma continues to smile fondly at the flames. “I loved those nights. You playing the piano while we all enjoyed each other’s company. Not having to talk to fill the silences, no forced or polite or fake conversation. I had . . . never known a family could be like that. I loved us all, together. A sorry little band of misfits, weren’t we?”

Darcy nods. She doesn’t know what to say, but she agrees with Gemma. Those nights that the four of them lounged around reading, playing chess, fiddling with the wireless, playing the piano, Darcy and Gemma drinking and smoking on the carpet before the fire . . . those nights had brought Darcy a sense of happiness and peace and comfort she’d never known existed before then.

“He hated that you worried about him, did you know?” Gemma asks, chuckling again. _Isn’t she dying inside? Isn’t there a hole in her heart?_ “He told me, just a few nights before I left . . . he wanted to be the one worried for you. He wanted you to be happy, to be free . . . ‘make sure he’s good to her,’ he told me.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him the truth,” she says. “I told him I’ve never known a man to treat you so well.” Gemma suddenly repositions, making Darcy start. She looks excited, almost eager, as if ready to exchange gossip. “Do you want to know something? I asked Remus for a poetry book I might like. He gave me one he was saving for you, all marked up and everything. I promised I’d give it to you when I was done.”

“You’re reading poetry?”

“Yeah.” And from her jacket pocket, Gemma pulls out a tiny paperback book, all black with gold lettering. She flips it over and smiles down at it. “I found a poem I like, one that reminds me of Sirius. Maybe it won’t remind you of him as much, but for me, I guess.”

“Go on, then. Read it.” Darcy finds herself eager to hear which poem Gemma’s picked out.

Gemma hesitates, the smile on her face never faltering. “You’ll have me back, then?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Darcy frowns. “Of course I’ll have you back. You’re my best friend. I’m sorry for what I said. I never should have said that to you, any of it.”

This makes Gemma smile wider. She opens the book carefully to a page somewhere in the middle that she’s dog-eared. When she notices Darcy peering down at it, trying to catch the poem title, Gemma pulls the book up to her face. “Are you ready?”

“Should I get my camera?”

“Shut up, you. Listen . . .”

* * *

Gemma’s poem echoes in Darcy’s head for the rest of the day.

_I so liked Spring last year_

_Because you were here; —_

It echoes in her head when Harry, Hermione, Ron, Emily, and Lupin come back to rejoin Darcy and Gemma in her room. It’s a reunion that’s been a long time coming, something Darcy had been looking forward to for weeks . . . for months. Many hugs are exchanged and happy greetings, but the smiles are too forced and sometimes the laughter is too loud to be entirely convincing.

Emily brings several bottles of butter beer, and Darcy even gets a nice picture of Emily and Lupin with their arms around each other; Emily’s thin arm wrapped tight around his waist, Lupin’s draped lazily over her shoulders as they wait for Gemma to pour them glasses of wine after finishing their butterbeers. Darcy tucks the photograph into Emily’s sweatshirt pocket before she leaves, unnoticed by anyone.

_The thrushes too —_

_Because it was these you so liked to hear —_

_I so liked you._

It echoes in her head as Harry and Lupin help Darcy walk down the stairs to the entrance hall, Gemma levitating Lupin’s single trunk behind them—the same trunk he’d used when he came to Hogwarts. There’s a carriage waiting to take Lupin and Gemma to the gates, where they plan on catching the Knight Bus for fear of splinching themselves in such an odd state of mind—Lupin back to his cottage in Yorkshire and Gemma to her parents’ estate somewhere in Somerset. Gemma bids Darcy good-bye first, graciously distracting Harry afterwards so Darcy can have a private word with Lupin.

“This seems familiar, doesn’t it?” Darcy jokes, her heart not really in it. She’d been heartbroken the last time she’d said good-bye to Lupin in this setting, but the mood had been at least hopeful—her godfather escaped on Buckbeak, she’d been looking forward to the prospect of visiting Lupin over the summer . . . there is none of that naive hope now, only fear. “We were in love, weren’t we?”

Lupin smiles fondly down at her. The air still feels wet and sticky from yesterday’s rain storm. “I was.”

“I was happy. Were you?”

He only continues to smile at her, inclining his head. “Don’t be a stranger this summer,” he tells her, looking weary. The nightmares had kept him up all night. The third time Lupin had woken, he’d cried at the mere sight of her, so grateful that she was there, next to him, alive.

“I won’t. I’ll send Max as soon as I get back. Maybe sooner if I see him.” Darcy is very aware of his fingers wrapped around her forearms, helping keep her balanced on her shaky legs.

“You and Harry are always welcome with me if you need a quick escape,” he says again, his cheeks tinted pink. “I’d be happy to have the both of you. Unfortunately . . .” Lupin flushes in earnest. “Well, truthfully, love, funds have been a slight issue in the past few months, but the least I could do is provide a safe house for the both of you.”

“I’ve told you . . . you don’t have to worry about that.” Darcy’s sentiment makes him shift uncomfortably, casting about for another point to look at.

Finally, Lupin swallows his pride and looks her in the eyes again. He looks sad. “Who’s going to take care of you?” he asks in a low voice.

Darcy falters, the weak smile fading from her face. “I’ll be fine,” she assures him, or tries to. “I’ll have Harry. Who’s going to take care of _you_?”

“I’ll be fine.” His answer irritates her. She wonders if her answer had irritated him—a blatant lie. “I’ll see you soon, all right?”

Darcy nods. He wraps his arms around her one last time, holding her tight. Darcy hugs him back, burying her face in his shoulder. Lupin presses his lips to the side of her head before pulling away.

_This year’s a different thing, —_

_I’ll not think of you._

The carriage is rolling down the drive. Both Lupin and Gemma stick their heads out the window to wave. Gemma blows a kiss. Hermione and Ron retire back to the common room, but Harry stays with Darcy until the carriage is out of sight and then he helps her back to her room.

_But I’ll like the Spring because it is simply Spring_

Dumbledore shows Darcy her new rooms. The office is a plain thing, located on the first floor to keep her from having to be in the dungeons. Darcy laughs at this. She wants to be able to have a window, she tells Dumbledore. Her office has a single window in the back, behind the heavy looking desk. The bookshelves are empty, there are cobwebs on the ceiling, but Dumbledore promises it will be cleaner in the fall.

The room is probably her favorite one yet, but she’s thought that about every room she’s had. The fireplace is the biggest one she’s had, definitely, but the entire place is slightly smaller than her current room. There’s a certain charm about it that Darcy likes; the living area is more or less the same, a sofa and a couple of armchairs, plus a table on the opposite side of the room where she can eat or play chess or read. These bookshelves are not built into the walls, but rather thrown together with mismatched pieces of wood, which Darcy doesn’t mind. Instead of a narrow door leading to her bedroom, there are double doors with polished brass handles to match the dark wood of the doors.

Darcy audibly gasps when she opens them. The bed is set in front of long, floor to ceiling windows with a pretty stained glass towards the top that filters the sunlight into pinks and purples and blues and colors the flagged stone flooring. A threadbare carpet covers most of the floor, which Darcy is grateful for; she knows how cold the floors can get during winters here. She has a beautiful view of the lake from here, and even now she sees the giant squid lift a tentacle above the surface, disturbing the usually still water and making several students in the water laugh. Dark red, crimson drapes are tied to the sides of the windows, and Darcy can tell when they cover the windows, they will allow little to no light inside.

Maybe it won’t be so bad next year, she tells herself. “I love it. Thank you.”

Dumbledore smiles.

_As the thrushes do._

* * *

In all the excitement of the day—Gemma coming back and falling right back into routine with Darcy, spending time with all of the people she loves the most, finally leaving her rooms, walking with help downstairs, stepping foot outside into the warm, humid, summer sunshine to say good-bye to Lupin and Gemma for the summer, seeing her brand new office where she’ll be grading papers and drinking coffee and maybe entertaining young guests with questions in a few months—Darcy completely forgets about dinner in the Great Hall until she hears the stampede of students outside her door making their way up to their common rooms again, the exciting chatter that means summer holiday is right around the corner.

It’s not like she’s terribly eager to face the school again after her unusual disappearance. Now that the story has broken about the Ministry in the _Daily Prophet_ , Darcy’s sure people will ask questions, ask her to relive the night that Sirius died. She doesn’t want to snap on her favorite first year students who will likely ask out of sheer curiosity rather than any malicious intent. She knows they don’t deserve to know the extent of her anger, and she doesn’t think it’ll much help her cause if she makes one of them  
cry.

And she doesn’t want to see Snape, anyway.

It’s far too easy to project her anger on him—after all, she’s done it for years now. Snape is used to taking the brunt of her anger especially after her seventh year . . . he isn’t afraid to turn around and snap right back, he isn’t afraid to hurt her feelings, he isn’t afraid to get angry with her. Maybe his dislike for her is strongest during these moments, but Snape has always accepted her anger, has always allowed her to demonstrate her anger before returning with his own irritated retort.

There is no way she could ever forgive him now, now that Sirius is dead. Darcy is sure Snape will waste no time in reminding her of it, in bringing it up constantly to make her hurt . . . but that doesn’t sound like Snape—the Snape he’s been recently, the Snape who has cared about her feelings. Surely he will recognize the extent to which she’s hurting and will say nothing of that night at all . . . and yet . . . Snape had been so cruel to Sirius for nothing . . . Snape couldn’t allow himself to forgive Sirius (could she forgive someone who’d done what Sirius egged James on to do to Snape?), had called him a coward on several occasions, had frequently spoken about Sirius as if it was by choice that he godfather had stayed at Grimmauld Place while others were risking their neck. Was it possible Snape had mocked him about that the night he’d died? Did Sirius want to prove a point to him? That he wasn’t a coward? That he could leave if he wanted? That he would save Darcy where Snape could not?

Is it possible that Snape could be just as much to blame as Darcy? It’s like a weight off her chest to think that it’s not entirely her fault. Snape should have been kinder to him . . . Snape shouldn’t have mocked Sirius, considering it was Snape’s fault to begin with that Sirius was in that situation. Darcy makes it a point to shout at him lots when he next comes to see her, sure he’ll turn up angry to berate her about not coming to dinner.

Darcy’s legs hurt. She’d walked a lot today, up and down stairs, always accompanied by someone. She swears loudly when both of her knees seemingly collapse and she falls backwards onto the hard ground, completely winded and blushing furiously despite there being no one around to see her in such an embarrassing position. She swears even louder upon realizing how hard it is to push herself up and even considers crawling to the bedroom for a moment to pull herself to her feet in a most undignified manner. Instead, feeling out of breath, she continues to lie on her back, looking up at the ceiling, hoping someone will come for her before the sun goes down behind the mountains and brings the night. Darcy looks to her right, where her wand has rolled a few inches away from where her fingers reach if she stretches out her long arm.

She only lays there for a little while, humiliated and lacking the energy to move. The stone floor does begin to hurt her back, however, and her head. And there isn’t anything interesting to see on the ceiling except a few spiderwebs and burn marks as if hit with a spell. The old and dusty exposed rafters above seem ready to fall on her, but maybe they’d knock her out and she could sleep undisturbed for a few hours that way.

“Darcy?”

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck_. “What?”

“Can I come in?”

“Please.”

The portrait swings open to reveal him standing there. Snape—his black hair forming greasy curtains on either side of his sallow and long face, looking bewildered at the sight of Darcy on the floor. He hesitates in the threshold, as if expecting a trap.

“Are you going to help me up or not?” Darcy snaps.

Snape hurries forward, slamming the door shut behind him, kneeling at her side. He wraps one of Darcy’s arms around his neck and stands, Darcy standing with him. Moving painfully slowly, Snape brings her to the sofa, a huge relief to her back after lying on the floor. “How long were you down there?” he asks, sitting beside her.

Darcy looks at him for a long time, her eyes narrowed, her brow furrowed. There is no sign of anger or hardness in his black eyes. She doesn’t know why she’d expected it—maybe she’s just used to it—but this situation seems the exact kind of situation that Snape would normally waste no time in verbally assaulting her for. She’d been stupid, stubborn, reckless. She hadn’t listened to what Snape had told her several times in pleading tones. She hadn’t listened to anyone about staying in the house. She’d gone to the Ministry, alone, after Snape had specifically told her not to. She had done everything wrong, had gone against Snape’s wishes, had caused someone within the Order to die—her godfather, the owner of Headquarters, Sirius Black. Is it because the casualty was Sirius that Snape doesn’t feel much like chastising her? If it had been someone else . . . McGonagall or Kingsley or Tonks or Gemma . . . would he have been more angry?

The thought lights a fire deep in her stomach. Rage overwhelms her, a rage that she can’t remember ever feeling towards anyone. This is beyond normal and typical anger, but something emboldened by her grief, by her pain, by the hatred she feels towards Snape in the moment.

“Come to have a gloat?” Darcy snarls, and Snape frowns, raising an eyebrow.

“You didn’t come to dinner,” he replies, adjusting his tone to be a little colder, a little harder. “I told Madam Pomfrey that you were to come to dinner.”

“What makes you think I would agree to that?” Darcy asks, scoffing, wishing she could get up and walk away and turn her back on him. The idea that she may fall or stumble or make herself out to be a fool in front of Snape makes her hesitate, however. “Let me explain something to you. You don’t get to summon me anywhere, nor am I obligated to do exactly as you say. Who do you think you are?”

“I’m the one responsible for you during your time here at Hogwarts—”

“Don’t,” Darcy says warningly. “Don’t do that. Don’t say that. I don’t want you to feel responsible for me. Ever. Is that why you’re here? To be cruel to me after I didn’t show up to dinner?”

Snape pauses, not looking away from her face. “I came here to talk to you. I thought . . . maybe you’d like someone to talk to.”

“ _You_?” Darcy laughs mirthlessly, crossing her arms over her chest. The silence that follows is nearly oppressive. “You thought, after all that’s happened, I’d want to talk to _you_?”

For a moment, Darcy catches the hurt that flashes in Snape’s eyes. She doesn’t feel sorry in the slightest. How can he sit here and act as if it was a good idea for him to come? How can he pretend that he’s the best person to come and visit Darcy in times like this?

Darcy inhales deeply, trying to control her temper. It bubbles dangerous close to the surface. “Do you have any idea what I went through that night? Do you have any idea the state I was in when I came back?” And when he doesn’t answer, she urges, “Do you?”

“I told you to stay put,” Snape counters, gentler than Darcy expects. “I told you people would try to lure you to the Ministry. Why didn’t you listen to me?”

“You couldn’t even tell me why!” Darcy protests.

Snape’s cheeks flood with color. “I— _we_ —wanted you to be safe!”

“Don’t pretend like—”

“I’m not pretending,” Snape interrupts her curtly. “Did it ever occur to you that I had good reason to tell you not to leave the house? I almost lost you because of your inability to do as you’re told—”

Darcy snorts, pleased with the way his cheeks remain flushed. He seems to have realized what he’s said, shifting awkwardly upon the sofa. “I’m not yours to lose, Professor Snape.”

They look at each other a moment, chests heaving. Darcy can’t remember feeling this angry with Snape for a long time.

“Your filthy, pathetic, vile little friends found me first, did you know that?” she growls, in it too deep to stop now. “Lucius Malfoy . . . and that swine, Nott.” Darcy touches the bruises on her throat where Nott’s fingers had wrapped tight around her neck. “Do you know what it’s like to have that freak’s hands on you? Do you have any idea what it’s like to think you’re about to be violated? To be murdered or tortured in front of your little brother?”

The anger comes. The hurt vanished from Snape’s eyes, replaced with a look of sheer rage. “What did they do to you?” he asks her quickly.

“It doesn’t matter what they did to me.” Darcy shakes her head, feeling the tears come. _Don’t cry, stupid girl, don’t cry, don’t be a cry baby, you stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid girl_. Darcy feels the heat rush to her face in a fit of humiliation. “You don’t give a _damn_ —” She gives him a sharp shove on the sofa—“that Sirius is dead. Admit it.”

Snape doesn’t say a word—not about Darcy shoving him, not about Sirius.

“This is your fault,” she says in an icy tone reminiscent of Snape’s own. It feels good to blame him, especially as he sits there and takes it without question. “This is all _your_ fault. If you hadn’t lied to the Minister about that night in the Shrieking Shack . . . if you hadn’t goaded Sirius . . . you never should have . . . how could you . . .” Darcy covers her eyes, spilling tears down her face, unable to finish a sentence coherently.

Maybe it’s the fact that she knows Snape is not grieving for Sirius that it’s so easy to fall apart in front of him. She does not have to be strong like she does for Harry, nor does she have to downplay her pain like she does in front of Lupin, who knew him longest, who loved him more. Darcy breaks down into sobs, crying in a way she hasn’t gotten a chance to yet, mourning in a deeper way than she’s done since the night of Sirius’ death. The idea that she will never again go to Grimmauld Place during the weekends to see his smiling face, to know she will never be able to have a proper family, just like he’d promised . . . it’s nice to be able to place the blame on someone that isn’t herself—blaming someone who isn’t denying it, who isn’t trying to comfort her or shift the blame. He’s just sitting there, taking it.

Very painfully, trying to seem like some dignity remains her, Darcy gets to her feet, muffling her grunt with her sobs. Snape finally moves, standing quickly with her, holding out his hands as if to catch her as she shuffles around the sofa, just wanting to put as much distance between them as possible. Snape follows her.

“Get away from me!” she shrieks, her breathing very irregular.

“Darcy . . .” Snape says in an exasperated tone, taking one step closer as Darcy clutches the back of the sofa for support, closing her eyes. “Your nose . . .”

“I don’t give a damn about my nose! Go!”

But he doesn’t. He takes another careful step forward, closing the distance.

Darcy wipes angrily at her bleeding nose, her heart quickening, her breath coming in short gasps. “I hate you,” she pants, unable to look at him. “I _hate_ you.”

Another step.

“Get away from me! I hate you!”

“You don’t mean that,” he says, almost pleading. “Darcy, you don’t mean that . . . don’t say that . . .”

“This is all your fault,” she cries, legs beginning to tremble violently.

Snape’s eyes flick down to her unsteady legs and he takes another step closer. “Darcy, come here—”

Darcy swats at his outstretched hand. “Don’t—”

But her knees buckle, and Darcy collapses. She doesn’t hit the floor, however—Snape catches her before she can crack her tailbone against the floor, and he lowers her gently into a sitting position. Darcy sobs, fat tears that sting her eyes and blur her vision. They struggle for a moment—Darcy trying to break free and push him away, Snape trying to continue to hold her, bring her closer to him, pull her to his chest. And then, after a moment of Snape’s hands grabbing her wrists, her arms, her shoulders, his hands take hers—a touch so gentle that it would be easy to pretend it’s Lupin if she were to close her eyes—and Darcy decides to simply submit, falling into his chest and staining the front of his black robes with the blood falling from her nose and the tears that seem unlikely to ever stop falling from her eyes.

As soon as Snape’s arms wrap around her, his smooth and bare cheek resting against the top of her head, Darcy suddenly decides she doesn’t want him to let go. She stops squirming and struggling and lets herself relax in his hold as she continues to make a mess all over him, speaking but unable to be understood. One of his hands smooths her hair back out of her face. He shows no intention of leaving now, no intention of releasing her, but Darcy doesn’t care. She doesn’t want him to go, to walk out the door, to leave, to leave her.

“I was . . .” Snape swallows, and Darcy can feel it against her temple. He lifts his head, looking down at her with a pained expression. “I thought you were never going to come back.”

Darcy opens her eyes against the front of his robes, wet and sticky. Her fingers seem to have unconsciously found their way to his chest, her palm resting just above his heart, where she can feel the quickened pace of it throbbing against his ribs. Darcy takes a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm herself. When she stops sobbing so loudly, Snape takes a moment to clean her face, wiping both blood and tears away before cleaning the front of his robes with a short wave of his wand.

They don’t speak again for the rest of the time. Darcy settles onto the sofa with Snape’s help and he throws a warm blanket over her, puts a pillow under her head, and starts a fire in the hearth. She watches him all the while, surprised when he picks up the book she’d ripped from Lupin’s hands off the table and rifles through it. He sits at the other end of the sofa, the opposite end that her head is at, and moves Darcy’s legs slightly in order to make room for him. As her knees bend slightly and Darcy tries to shift, the bottom of her shirt rides up and Snape glances at her exposed skin for less than a second before looking again, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. Darcy tries to pull the blanket up, but he stops her.

A large bruise is visible, just there above the waistband of her pants. They’re all nearly healed—Madam Pomfrey had apologized profusely for not having more of Gemma’s concoction to heal them all, but what little she’d had of it had helped. The bruises that were black as pitch and dark blue are still bad, but not like they were. Snape touches the bottom of her shirt—a bold move, she thinks, almost about to push him away—lifting it slowly to find another bruise, and another, and another, and another and another and another, until her shirt is so high that, if lifted any further, it would reveal her bra to him. Darcy’s face is on fire as Snape’s eyes rove over the marks on her skin, her entire stomach laid bare before him, goosebumps on her skin. He only looks, never touches.

“What is this?” he breathes, almost in disbelief, still clutching the bottom of her shirt. Snape looks her dead in the eyes, and with a bit more urgency, asks, “ _What is this_?”

“I fell,” Darcy croaks. “Down some stairs.”

“And this?” Snape’s free hand moves to her throat. She flinches, but his fingertips graze softly over the bruises on her throat. And then, coming to a stark realization, he cups her neck, aligning his fingers with the marks. “Who did this to you?”

“Nott.”

Snape scowls, removing his hand rather quickly from her neck. His eyes trail back down her black and blue stomach. “Do you love him? Lupin?” he whispers.

Darcy nods. Her heart is beating so fast that she thinks it might burst and be the end of her. Never had she felt so close to Snape . . . never, in all the intimate moments they’d shared, had it ever been anything like this. Darcy feels at her most vulnerable now, her stomach exposed for him to look at, her injuries right there, staring him in the face, her own face swollen and red from crying. He’s looming over her, hunched over her with just her knees between them.

“I don’t hate you,” she confesses breathlessly. “I was only angry.”

Snape forces himself to give her a small smile. It’s hardly a smile, but he looks her in the eyes when he does it. The smile fades quickly and his eyes fall from her face again back to her skin.

“Professor Snape,” she begins in a hoarse voice, “do you want to touch me?”

His face goes bright red, but he doesn’t answer. Darcy almost wishes she had her camera within reach.

“Remus says you want to fuck me.” Darcy’s astonished she’s said something so bold with absolutely no thought to it. She attributes it to the many potions she’s been taking, a lack of sleep, a feeling of reckless abandon, and also the pain still swelling inside her heart for Sirius. “Is that true?”

“Must you be so . . . crude?” Snape asks in a strangled voice.

On a whim, not quite sure why she does it, Darcy takes Snape’s hand in her own, and he releases the fabric of her shirt he’d been holding onto so tightly. She places his palm to her stomach, surprised to know that his touch gives her chills. All around where he touches, goosebumps rise, as if his hand is ice. He leaves his palm flat to her taut stomach for a moment, finally beginning to trace patterns between the bruises, tracing circles around her navel with his middle and ring finger, brushing his index fingertip over the single freckle on her left side, just barely visible beneath her breast, which is still covered by her shirt. His fingers glide across her stomach, skating on her milky skin, the smoothest touch she thinks she’s ever known. Lupin’s is nothing like this, whose rough and callused touch is her favorite. Even Oliver’s hands had been rough from gripping a broomstick nearly all day.

Darcy takes Snape’s hand in her own again, bringing it higher, higher, underneath the thin fabric of her shirt, placing his hand upon her breast and releasing it. Snape’s fingers don’t tighten to cup it, nor does he move his hand at all. His jaw is clenched tight, grinding his teeth, and then his hand is out from under her shirt and her stomach is covered again.

“No,” he says, turning away from her as much as he can. “No, Darcy. You don’t want that.”

“I don’t know what I want anymore.”

Snape shakes his head. “I would only ruin you.”

Darcy can’t count the amount of times that she’s heard such a sentiment from Lupin’s lips. She’s never thought it true, never thought that—despite the bitterness in his tone whenever he speaks it—it would ever be true. But coming from Snape’s lips, she finds it hard not to believe it. What good could ever come from this? What good could ever come from a touch that she doesn’t even know she really wants? A touch from a man she isn’t in love with? A touch from a man who doesn’t care that Sirius is dead . . .

“I just don’t want you to leave me,” Darcy admits, and while she hadn’t been thinking about what she was going to say, she knows that it’s the truth. “I don’t want you to go.”

Snape softens visibly. “You don’t have to do that to keep me from leaving. Don’t ever think I would expect that from you.”

After that he sits up straighter on the sofa again and reads, his eyes never straying from the pages, sometimes tilting the book or moving it closer to his face to decipher the handwritten notes in the margins. Finally, Snape glances at her, noticing that she’s been watching him. He blushes, but Darcy isn’t abashed in the slightest. “Sleep,” he insists softly.

“Are you going to stay?”

“Would you rather I not?”

Darcy considers him. “My nightmares are bad. I’ll scare you.”

“They’re just nightmares. Why would they scare me? Aren’t they supposed to scare _you_?”

“I suppose so.” Darcy’s tongue darts out to wet her lips. She pulls the blanket up to her chin. “Professor Snape?”

He hums, not looking up from the book. Darcy doesn’t really know what she was going to ask him. There are several questions racing through her brain, but she’s afraid of the answers. _Do you love me? How long have you loved me? Why are you here? Why are you staying? Why did you kiss me that one day? How did it make you feel? Have I hurt you by not wanting you? How do you know that’s not what I want? Why don’t you want to touch me?_

“Nothing,” she whispers, closing her eyes, sniffling.

“Sleep.”

Darcy obeys. 


	66. Chapter 66

“Feeling all right?”

Darcy inhales sharply as an aching shoots up her right calf. “Yeah,” she says, but her tone does not indicate she’s telling the truth. “It hurts. It really hurts.”

“Take a moment. We can go as slow as you need to.”

She nods, one hand curled tightly around Snape’s forearm, her other curled tightly around the railing of one of the moving staircases. Thankfully, this particular staircase seems to take pity on her and stays completely still for the time being. She had known, as soon as she lifted her leg to skip the trick step, that it would be a painful landing. Her knee had buckled as soon as her foot touched the next stair, and Snape had grabbed her arm tight to keep her from falling forward down the staircase.

After a minute of breathing deeply and trying to ignore the pain, Darcy nods again, ready to continue. She leads for the most part, Snape following her at an excruciatingly slow pace, and she’s rather impressed that he hasn’t once complained or made some kind of snide joke, trying to move her along.

“You know Madam Pomfrey asked if I wanted a wheelchair?” Darcy asks, taking another baby step, then another, then another.

“Ridiculous,” Snape answers right away. “That wouldn’t help you get many places, considering all the damn stairs in this place . . .”

“My thoughts exactly.” Darcy gives him a sideways look. “You know what would be really—”

“I’m not carrying you. Not only do you weigh—”

“—not even ten stone—”

Snape suddenly frowns, looking at her curiously. “Is that all?” he asks, more to himself than to Darcy. “Anyway, not only do you weight _not even ten stone_ , how do you think it would look for me to be seen carrying you around like a little girl?”

“Oh, come on,” Darcy groans, making it safely to the landing and sighing in relief, remembering too late that there’s still two more staircases to get down before reaching the Great Hall. “You’ve carried me before. Besides, I can hardly walk . . . it would be a very kind thing of you, Professor Snape.”

“The last time I carried you, it was because you’d been attacked by a werewolf. And, unfortunately for you, there’s not a werewolf in sight.” Snape’s grabs her upper arm right when she begins to wobble. They pause on the empty landing for a moment before continuing. “You sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, let’s keep going.”

Darcy had woken late for breakfast, and by the time she remembered what had taken place between she and Snape the previous night, it was to find Snape gone completely and her legs with more feeling than the past few days. Madam Pomfrey had come to bring her breakfast upon noticing her empty seat at the staff table in the Great Hall, administering Darcy’s medicine, doing leg exercises with her, rolling her foot. And she’d asked questions—annoying questions, like Darcy was no more than five-years-old.

“What did you do last night?” Madam Pomfrey had asked.

And Darcy, feeling stubborn and irritated, had replied, “Nothing.”

She’d insisted on Darcy going to lunch, fetching Professor Snape to escort her to the Great Hall, likely wanting to be far from Darcy herself.

It had been awkward at first—for Darcy, anyway. If Snape had any recollection of the previous night, he made no indication of it. He still hasn’t brought it up, but the longer she’s with Snape and him alone, the less awkward it gets. It’s almost freeing—his words had quite literally freed her from another cage she hadn’t realized she was stuck in, had freed her from all the fear and doubt her relationship with Snape was causing her. To know that her intimate affection is not expected by him lifts a weight off her shoulders. To know that her intimate affection is not necessary to keep him at her side is possibly the best feeling in the world right now, in current circumstances, and Darcy thinks of Ludo Bagman for the first time in a long while.

Ludo’s compliments had always come easily and naturally, always genuine and always delivered with a very boyish smile on his face. He’d taken a liking to her, a liking that Darcy had first thought was based upon his wanting to bed her, just like many other men she’s met in her life who think of nothing else, who see her as a famous, young, pretty girl, but Ludo had never expected such things of her. Darcy would never admit it to anyone, but she misses Ludo, misses the connection and friendship they had (did they ever really? he’d left quick enough, anyway).

Last night, Snape’s actions had spoken very clearly to her. He’d asked if she loved Lupin, and she’d been truthful, and she wonders if that was part of the reason Snape refused to touch her so readily, or if it was something else. Regardless, Snape had respected her to the point where he knew enough was enough. She doesn’t think she’d have actually wanted to go through with it. She had initiated and said those things because she thought Snape wanted it, and if he hadn’t stopped himself, Darcy feels she probably would have gone through with it just because he would have wanted to.

Darcy knows very well that she’s affectionate by nature. All of the times she’d taken Snape’s hand in hers, every time she’d cared for him, every time she’d taken his arm as they walked—simple acts of affection, her way of saying that she cares, that she loves him. She’d never thought Snape would take those gestures another way, one that she’d never really given serious thought to. The man in her dreams is always Lupin— _always_ , and she’s sure of it. Never Snape, not once.

“I’ve something to show you after lunch,” Snape says now, helping her down the marble staircase. “I wanted to show you after dinner last night, but this is fine.”

“Okay, sorry.” Darcy gives him a sideways look. “What is it?”

“Don’t ask. It’s a surprise.”

“All right.” She makes it down the last few stairs and breathes a loud sigh of relief.

It’s like she’s come back from the dead. She’s rushed within seconds, it seems—with her fingertips digging into Snape’s arm, students approach her all at once, flanking both she and Snape and pushing them further into the Great Hall. First years hug her without warning (Snape scowls at them all, shooing them away like they’re pestilential birds), older girls ask her to sit with them for lunch (Snape snarls at them, asking if they’d like a few last minute points deducted for speaking to a teacher so uncouthly). Hagrid meets her halfway down the Great Hall, the ground seemingly rumbling beneath each of his mighty steps, and he wraps his arms around her until she grunts in pain and he stumbles back, apologizing over and over again rather unnecessarily. Even Professor McGonagall is back, relying on a sturdy looking walking stick, but walking much better than Darcy. She looks positively healthy for someone who’d been struck in the chest by four Stunning spells. McGonagall gives Darcy a one-armed hug, patting her on the shoulder in a very McGonagall-like fashion before resuming her seat at the staff table, her half-finished lunch before her. Dumbledore holds up his goblet to Darcy in celebration, inclining his head slightly and smiling beneath the pure white whiskers that are beginning to cover his upper lip.

As Darcy and Snape pass the Gryffindor table, she looks longingly at the empty seat beside Hermione. Her heart pangs painfully at the thought of being a seventh year again, of sitting with her friends and laughing heartily, slightly hungover, stuffing her face with greasy food and sweet fruits. Harry alone seems quiet at the table, smiling along with his friends, but it’s clear his heart is not in it. Joining them today are Ginny and Neville, who both give her a small smile as she passes them.

Darcy releases Snape’s arm, turning to return to her brother. He goes on without her to the staff table as Darcy hobbles and shuffles to the table, gripping Ron’s broad shoulder to keep her from falling. He turns to look over his shoulder at her, mouth full of food.

“Can I join you?” Darcy asks nervously, unsure why the idea of being rejected by her brother and friends makes her so nervous. Or perhaps it’s the prospect of declining the offers of several other older students and instead wanting to sit with and enjoy the company of a couple of fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds.

“Yeah,” Ron answers. “Have a seat, Darce.”

Darcy smiles, sitting down in the vacant seat beside Hermione. Hermione promptly grabs at the glittering, empty plate, filling it with food (Harry is quick to tell Hermione that Darcy doesn’t like peas, and instructs her to take a particularly rare piece of cold roast beef for a sandwich). Though Darcy doesn’t have much of an appetite, she listens to everyone talk about everything and nothing (except, it seems, for Sirius). Darcy thinks Hermione is going to say something, but Ron quickly shushes her with a few animated facial and hand gestures, and Hermione doesn’t try to bring it up again.

“Will I see any of you next year?” Darcy asks after a lull in the conversation.

“Not likely,” Ron grumbles, but he doesn’t seem very upset about it. “That Potions O.W.L. was a nightmare. What kind of grades does Snape want?”

“Professor Snape only takes students who receive O’s in Potions,” Darcy answers, suddenly feeling very disappointed. She hadn’t thought about Harry, Ron, and Hermione becoming N.E.W.T. students next year, and it makes her quite sad to think she’ll be seeing less of her favorite people.

“An O?” Ron snorts, chewing loudly and brandishing his fork at Darcy as if to make a point. “That’s a bit picky, isn’t it? Hermione’ll be there, won’t you?”

“Do you think so?” Hermione asks nervously, turning to Darcy as if hoping for an answer. “I don’t know how long I can handle waiting for our results . . . when will they come, do you know?”

“In a few weeks.” Darcy shrugs, stabbing moodily at her soft and soggy carrots with her fork, fussing about with the lump of mashed potatoes. Privately, Darcy is positive that Hermione will be in the N.E.W.T. Potions class, but she doesn’t have very high hopes for Ron or Neville. Harry is a hit or miss, she thinks, and supposes it all depends on how well his theory exam went. Darcy looks for a moment at Ginny, as well, locked in whispered conversation with Luna Lovegood, who has strolled over from the Ravenclaw table without warning. Darcy has to admit she’s rather impressed with Ginny’s potioneering, and she wouldn’t be surprised if Ginny got an O on her O.W.L. when the time came. “It’s nothing to worry about. They don’t grade as harshly as you think. Have you considered any careers yet?”

“Aurors, of course, right, Harry?” Ron grins from ear to ear and Harry returns the smile half-heartedly, meeting Darcy’s eyes for a split second. “What career did you look into, Darcy?”

“Emily wanted to be Aurors together, and she really went for it.” Darcy puts her fork down and smiles, a genuine smile that doesn’t make her cheeks hurt from forcing it. “But I think I quite like teaching.”

“Darcy’s got an office for next year,” Harry adds, and everyone ooh’s and ah’s in a very dramatic effect.

“But you have to show us!” Hermione claps her hands together. “You will, won’t you?”

“Yeah, on the first floor this time. I think Dumbledore’s gotten the hint that I’m tired of walking so far to the dungeons,” Darcy jokes, and she’s amazed at how good it feels to do so. “I’m going to move some of my stuff in there later, work my legs out. I’ll leave the door open so you can come by.”

“As long as you don’t make me do any work,” Ron groans, elbowing Darcy playfully. “Exams are over and I’m enjoying these last few days here, damn it.”

Darcy raises her eyebrows. “I’ve got a lot of books that I need shelved, you know. A helping hand would be nice, Ron.”

“You must let me take a look at your collection,” Hermione insists very seriously. “Could I possibly borrow some books for the summer?”

“Sure,” Darcy says. “You can borrow whatever you want. You don’t need to ask, but they’re all marked up, and I know—”

Hermione groans and everyone chuckles. “How could you do such a thing to a book? I see the way you dog ear the pages and write everywhere . . . your poor books, honestly.”

“It makes the books have a certain . . . authenticity.” Darcy sighs contently. “I’ve been doing it since Remus got me that marked up poetry book for Christmas in seventh year.”

“ _That’s_ what that book was you were so secretive about?” Ron asks, sounding amazed. He hums, returning to his lunch. “Another mystery solved that I didn’t realize I’d ever need closure for, I suppose.” It’s quiet for a moment as everyone around Darcy eats and chews and swallows. “I’m just saying . . . Lupin could have gotten _me_ something, too, you know.”

“You aren’t Darcy’s son. Would you really have appreciated a nice book?” Hermione asks with a cocked eyebrow. “Or would you have tucked it away to never open it again? Or better yet—would you have given it straight to me or Darcy?”

Ron holds his hands up in surrender. “All right, all right. Maybe I’m fine with no gift . . . tell him he’s forgiven, Darcy, would you?”

Darcy scoffs. “I don’t think he’s asking forgiveness.”

* * *

“I don’t think I’ve ever been down this corridor before, and I’ve been here for nine years.” Darcy peeks into an open room they pass, disappointed there isn’t anything more interesting than a set of chairs set up towards a small, wooden stage.

“You wouldn’t have needed to come this way,” Snape explains patiently, hurrying her along. Darcy stumbles and he slows his pace, muttering a quiet and brisk apology. “This is where a lot of the extracurriculars take place . . . Gobstones Club meets down this wing, all the drama clubs, art and music. Why didn’t you take any extracurriculars?”

“I don’t know,” Darcy confesses, shrugging her shoulders. “I guess I just didn’t feel like it. Not like Drama Club will help me advance in the world. I could be an actress, though, don’t you think?”

“An actress?” Snape glances at her, pulling her past a room full of empty canvases just like Emily’s shed at her father’s house.

“Emily and I used to go see plays sometimes in London,” she says. “Her father was big on Shakespeare, so we saw them all . . . Mr. Duncan liked _Othello_ the best. Emily says she’s seen that play over ten times. He goes to see it every time it’s within an hour driving range. But she always preferred _A Midsummer’s Night Dream_.”

“And you?”

“ _Macbeth_ , for certain. It was the first play I’d ever been to, and the man who was cast as Lord Banquo was so handsome . . .”

Snape looks at her curiously, stopping abruptly in the middle of the corridor. Darcy stumbles again, but he catches her before she can go down, steadying her on her feet before letting go. She raises her eyebrows at him, waiting for whatever he’s clearly bursting to say. His cheeks turn slightly pink and he looks away from her before saying, “Your mother enjoyed Shakespeare. Maybe not as much as you do, but . . .”

“She did?” Darcy asks quickly, her heart flipping inside of her chest. “What was her favorite? Do you know? Did she tell you?”

“ _Romeo and Juliet_. Carried it around with her for nearly all of fourth year.”

Darcy blinks in surprise, and then scrunches her nose. Snape laughs— _laughs_ —at her reaction, only for a quick moment before the smile fades from his face along with his laughter.

“No?” he asks.

She shakes her head, nose still scrunched.

“Here, close your eyes. It’s in here.” Snape motions towards the nearest closed door with his head. Darcy furrows her brow, looking closely at the door before covering her eyes with her hands. She feels his hands come down upon her shoulders, steering her closer to the door. She hears the lock click open, the creaking of the wooden door swinging inwards. Snape urges her forward slowly, until the sunlight shifts, as if she’s stepped underneath a shady tree. There’s the sound of drapes being pulled apart and the sunlight hits her again, warming her exposed skin.

“Can I open my eyes now?” she asks eagerly. If she could, she’d be dancing on her feet with anticipation and excitement. “What is it?”

“In a moment . . .” Snape brushes by her, his robes tickling her arm. Darcy presses her palms harder into her eyes to keep herself from peeking through her fingers. “All right . . .” His voice sounds far away, on the other side of the room now. “Open.”

Darcy lowers her hands from her eyes and they flutter open. She’s never been in this room before—a high-ceilinged, almost cathedral-like room, with tall windows and chairs stacked against the walls, put away until next year. In fact, it seems nearly everything has been put away for the summer, as the room is empty, save for the chairs and a piano in the middle of the room, with Snape standing behind it, looking peculiarly nervous. Darcy’s breath hitches, and her brain reels, trying to think of an appropriate way to express her gratitude without sounding like a complete liar, or fake.

She approaches the piano, breathless. It’s not the same one from Grimmauld Place, but still a beautiful mahogany grand piano, just like she’d learned to play on. Darcy sits down on the bench, which doesn’t make a sound as she lowers her weight onto it, and she tries to lift the fallboard, only to realize it’s locked. Snape reaches into his pocket and withdraws a tiny, bronze key, slightly weathered looking. Darcy takes it from him slowly, unlocking the fallboard with a satisfying click. The keys are ivory from the feel of them, slightly yellowed with age, but otherwise completely fine. She touches one of the white keys and the note echoes throughout the room.

“You’ll never need to tune it,” Snape says, peering down into the inside of the piano. “And you needn’t worry about it getting too cold during the winter. It will never need to be serviced either, except, perhaps, for a quick dusting.”

“Was this here all the time?” Darcy breathes, her heart feeling tight. She puts her foot down on the right pedal, but her lack of strength prevents her from actually depressing it enough for it to work while playing. “I never knew Hogwarts had a piano.”

“The piano Hogwarts had was, most unfortunately, destroyed by Peeves about nine years ago, and no one really saw the need to replace it.” Snape touches the piano lightly with the tips of his fingers. “However, I was able to convince the Headmaster that . . . perhaps now would be a most opportune time to invest in a new one.”

Darcy shakes her head, exhaling, examining the keys carefully for a moment before looking back up at Snape. “Thank you,” she says softly, hoping it doesn’t come off as sarcastic or bitter or mocking. Darcy pushes herself to her feet when he doesn’t respond after a few moments, making her slow way over to him and wrapping her arms around his neck. He tenses, but eventually his arms hold her loosely, and when Darcy pulls away, there is no reluctance to let her go, nor is there any awkward pause as they notice the lack of space between them. “Would you like to hear a song?”

At this question, Snape nods. They sit together on the bench, shoulder to shoulder. Darcy thinks for a moment, very hard, about what song to play. _Sharing music is communicating without words_ , Darcy had learned, all those years ago when she’d been taught the piano. _You can have whole conversations through music without ever having to open your mouth_. She aligns her fingers and begins to play slowly.

There’s no denying it’s a song representing someone deep in mourning or feeling an overwhelming amount of sadness and emotion, especially at the slowed down pace with which Darcy plays it. It is solemn and melancholy, much the way that Moonlight Sonata sounds to her, but this song is not stagnant. It is a broken heart prepared to mend, prepared to love, prepared to move on. It is a broken soul aching for company and affection. It is Darcy in the seconds after Sirius’ death, it is Darcy crawling across the Atrium to hold Harry, it is Darcy listening to the heavy rain outside and Lupin’s soft breathing as he sleeps beside her. It is the love that her friends provide her, it is being back in the drawing room at Grimmauld Place with Gemma, Sirius, and Lupin, it is healing in a proper way, it is knowing that when she goes to sleep tonight, the sun will still rise in the morning. And when she finishes, forcing her foot to push hard across on the soft pedal, she leaves her fingers on the keys for a minute before placing them in her lap.

“Does that one have a name?”

“Prelude Number Four, in E minor.” Darcy inhales deeply. “Chopin. Frédéric Chopin. The sheet music was in the binder you gave me for Christmas.”

“You’ve gotten very good at playing since I first heard you, did you know that?”

Darcy blushes, turning her head to the side to smile at him. “Thank you.”

* * *

With the shelves now full of books (some gone back to the Gryffindor common room with Hermione, and some in Darcy’s own trunk to read again over summer), the room is beginning to look a little bit homey. Due to the stifling warmth of the day, Darcy hasn’t lit a fire, but she imagines it’ll look and feel wonderful during a cold winter night sometime. She pictures herself curled up on the sofa, lost in a book, a blanket thrown over her perfectly fine legs as the fire crackles and pops and throws dancing shadows all over the room.

Darcy sorts through her other things, trying to determine what to bring back to Privet Drive with her and what to leave here. She hadn’t realized the sheer amount of all the things she’s accumulated over the last year—the number of owned books has doubled, she has two scrapbooks now, some pictures frames that are empty and some with a photograph stuffed into it, and the _clothes_ . . . when had she gotten all of these? Old things that don’t fit Emily well anymore, clothes that Emily hadn’t liked, dresses from Gemma and pretty things to wear to parties or to somewhere important, shoes that Gemma had bought Darcy at markets and at stores (Darcy’s always had plenty of shoes, but now the number of them just seem outrageous), six different coats and jackets that she decides to leave at Hogwarts for the winter and fall, birthday cards from almost a year ago, jewelry that she doesn’t remember buying or receiving. Darcy empties her trunk of all her outfits, putting away clothes that won’t be worn until the snow comes, lining up her shoes neatly off to the side of her room, pleased that her legs allow her to move so freely without much trouble.

The bottom of her trunk is carelessly packed with junk. Her newest scrapbook lies on top of a bag of stale owl treats, empty packs of cigarettes, old matchbooks and lighters that don’t have any fluid left to them. There’s an old sock with holes in the heel and toes that Darcy throws directly into the wastebin (it’s an ugly sock, anyway). After she completely empties the trunk, there’s plenty of room for the outfits she does want to bring back to Privet Drive (she takes extreme care to pack outfits that don’t reveal too much skin, or ones that would possibly offend Aunt Petunia), and she picks up the newest scrapbook to place on one of the bookshelf in the living area.

Max is perched upon the rafters, exhausted from being poked and prodded and chased around the room by Ron just a few hours ago. He’s fast asleep, head tucked into his fluffy little wing, nearly hidden from view by the shadows. Darcy reaches up to place the scrapbook on a higher shelf, her legs feeling painful again as she lifts herself onto her toes, and the scrapbook slips from her hands and tumbles to the ground, thankfully missing Darcy’s face in the process.

“Shit,” she whispers, lowering herself to the ground to grab the scrapbook. It’s been thrown open in the fall, opened to a few candid pictures of Darcy, Emily, and Gemma wandering around Grimmauld Place, usually with glasses of alcohol in their hands and bags under their heavy eyes. Darcy closes it with a snap and makes to stand up, her attention caught by a photograph that has been thrown a little off to the side. But this picture, in the light cast on it by the fire, certainly isn’t one of hers—for one thing, it’s moving, and Darcy’s pictures are all quite still. She snatches it from the ground, holding it up to her face and feeling the wind get knocked out of her.

It’s Sirius’ old photograph of the original Order of the Phoenix, the yellowed and fading photograph that Sirius had shown her months ago now. She flips it over, unsure why, not expecting to see anything, but she freezes upon noticing writing on the back—writing she recognizes with ease as Sirius’.

_Original Order of the Phoenix, July 1981._

_To my Darcy—the love of my life,_

_I will never be able to thank you enough for the happiness you brought me._

Darcy’s heart skips a few beats and she flips the picture back over, hardly able to breathe. Her parents, Sirius, and Lupin are standing at the forefront of the photograph, smiling and waving, arms thrown around each other. She covers her mouth as the tears burn her eyes—

Someone knocks at the door of her rooms and Darcy clears her throat, getting to her feet, the picture still held tight in her hands. She wipes at her eyes quickly. “It’s open, come in.”

The door opens slowly and Darcy quickly rearranges her features at the sight of a flushed Neville entering her room. No longer donning robes, instead just his Muggle clothing, Neville seems a bit more comfortable and much older than he’d seemed before their adventure at the Ministry of Magic. He doesn’t miss the picture in Darcy’s hands and he furrows his brow upon seeing Darcy’s wet cheeks. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything . . .” he says apologetically.

Darcy smiles weakly at him. “You didn’t. My legs were hurting, anyway. Thought I’d take a break.”

“What is that?” he asks, pointing at the picture.

Darcy holds it up and inhales deeply, wondering how Neville might take to the picture. She looks down at it again, picking out Frank and Alice Longbottom with surprising ease. “Would you like to come look? You might enjoy it. Come on,” she says, sitting on the sofa and patting the empty seat beside her. “Sit.”

Neville pauses by the door, looking as if he’d rather leave, but eventually he makes his way to the sofa and sits down beside Darcy, putting considerable distance between them. Darcy scoff, moving closer and holding the photograph out for Neville to take. His eyes scan the picture for a moment before he takes it from her hands, sitting up straight, his breathing quickening. Darcy begins to worry as he breathes faster than normal, and she puts a hand on his shoulder, feeling extremely guilty.

“Neville . . . are you all right?” she asks gently, wanting to pull him to her, comfort him.

“That’s . . . that’s mum and dad, that is,” Neville gasps, pointing at his mother’s smiling, cheerful, round face. “Wow . . . and . . . there’s Professor Moody, and Hagrid . . .” His eyes linger on each person, as if dedicating their faces to memory. “Look, it’s Professor Lupin, too! And—and . . . blimey, Darcy . . .” Neville holds up the photograph right beside Darcy’s face. “You sure do look like your mum.”

“Do you really think so?” Darcy asks with a small smile.

Neville purses his lips, eyes darting back and forth from Darcy’s face to the photograph and back. “No . . . up close, you kind of look like your dad.”

“That’s the general consensus.”

“I can’t believe this. Where did you get this?”

Darcy clears her throat, feeling rather awkward talking to Neville about Sirius. “My godfather showed it to me.” She points out Sirius in front, looking a completely different man from when she’d last seen him. “It’s the original Order of the Phoenix. They fought against Voldemort in the first war.”

Neville looks over the picture again, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Finally, he gives it back to her. “I’m sorry about Sirius Black. Hermione told me you were . . . very close.”

Darcy doesn’t know what to say, so she nods slowly, unable to tear her eyes away from the picture. All of those people gruesomely murdered or tortured by Death Eaters or Voldemort . . . and now Sirius is just another casualty. Who’s next? Darcy prays it isn’t Lupin. As much as she doesn’t want to talk or think about this at all, she doesn’t quite mind Neville talking about it and she can’t really be mad at Neville with his sweet face. But she does need something to distract her.

“Do you mind if I smoke in here?”

Neville seems surprised that she’s asked him at all. “No . . . it’s your room.”

“Still, it’s polite to ask, isn’t it?” Darcy laughs weakly, grabbing a loose cigarette off the table and lighting it with her wand. Her hand shakes terribly and she takes a long drag, running a hand through her hair.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, you didn’t . . . it’s okay,” she says, wiping at the first tear that leaks from her eye. She catches it before it’s able to fall down her cheek. Darcy looks down at the picture of the original Order, watching Sirius smiling, waving at her, his eyes sparkling with life, life that she had never seen in his eyes since he’d escaped Azkaban. “It’s just . . . I thought we’d have more time, you know?”

Darcy flips the picture over again, relishing the words written on the back in Sirius’ handwriting.

“Sometimes I feel like the world gives me things to love, only to cruelly take them away from me.”

“When does it get better?” Neville asks, his cheeks blotchy, his eyes shining. “When will life ever just be . . . simple?”

She looks sideways at Neville, remembering a time long ago when she’d sat in Lupin’s rooms before a fire, sharing her deepest secrets with him. How funny, she thinks, to see the tables turned. Instead of her seeking comfort, to be the one giving it . . . and she finds herself echoing Lupin’s sentiment to Neville, not as much comfort as it is the truth.

The world has been cruel to us,” she tells him. “We’ll always carry our suffering with us wherever we go. You and me . . . Harry and Remus . . . life will never be simple for people like us.”

Neville’s quiet for a moment.

“I’ve found . . .” she says, her voice hoarse, “that what makes it easier is . . . having people around who love you.”

He holds his head in his hands. “Like who?”

“Like me.” Darcy frowns. “ _I_ love you, Neville.” She smiles at the flush that creeps up the back of his neck. “Do you want a butterbeer? I think I’ve got a few left.”

He nods, Darcy ruffles his hair, and they sit in a comfortable silence until they finish their drinks.

* * *

“Fucking hell . . . if this is what being a prefect is like, I’m glad I wasn’t one.” Darcy shuts the compartment door with difficulty. “You know you can’t just leave them sit out there.”

“Sure can,” Ron chuckles, peeking through the compartment window to check that the grotesque and disfigured forms of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle are still lying. Darcy’s head is still pounding after being nearly assaulted by some young Slytherins girls who’d cried about the amount of magic used on the three older boys by Harry and his friends. “Don’t be a buzzkill, Darcy. Come sit and have a chocolate frog. I’ve got one left. Hey, you hear who Ginny’s going out with now?”

“Ron, it’s none of your business,” Ginny snaps, looking up from _The Quibbler_ , which is being held upside down in your hands. She looks at Darcy with an exasperated look before returning to her magazine. “Dean Thomas is a sweet boy, anyway.”

Darcy hums distractedly, opening the last chocolate frog as she squeezes in between Harry and Ron on the cushy train seat. Hermione is hidden behind a newspaper, sitting between Neville and Ginny, Luna Lovegood on Ginny’s right side. It’s not that she doesn’t care who Ginny is dating, but she has nothing against Dean Thomas and she quite agrees with Ginny’s assessment of him. Ron seems to take offense with Darcy’s bored reaction and voices it.

“Not as exciting as finding out your sister is . . . dating a teacher, is it?” Ginny teases, giving Harry a gleaming look over her magazine. Harry only smiles. “You’re the envy of half the girls in my year, Darcy.”

“You should be glad it wasn’t Lockhart, mate,” Ron says, his voice muffled by the chocolate in his cheek. Hermione ruffles her newspaper, glaring at Ron with pink cheeks. “Imagine spending holidays with that lunatic. Imagine sharing a _bed_ with him, Darcy . . . pictures of himself everywhere, probably . . . autograph every naked picture he gives you . . .”

Everyone laughs, even Max gives a hoot from his cage up in the luggage rack, and they all make small talk for the rest of the way.

Darcy wonders if the ride back to King’s Cross goes by quickly because she’s dreading it. Being stuck at Privet Drive after Sirius’ death will likely be torture . . . she hadn’t given any thought to Privet Drive for most of the year, under the assumption she’d be going back to Grimmauld Place, to spend the summer with Sirius and Lupin and Gemma and Emily and Harry, all together, all a family. She wishes it could still be so, and the ache in her heart is strong today and very painful. To think that she’ll have to deal with Vernon again, who will likely question her very physically about where she and Harry had disappeared to that night last summer, is something she doesn’t want to think about, and when Darcy sets foot off the Hogwarts Express, it’s with a heavy heart.

It’s just like all those years ago . . . Darcy had been taken against her will from Sirius to be brought to Privet Drive, to live with people who couldn’t care less about her. So it is now, Sirius taken from her in the cruelest way, forcing her to return to this family she hates with everything she has.

She and Harry cross through the magical barrier together awkwardly, both carrying noisy owls in their cages and large, heavy trunks at their sides. And both stop abruptly in their tracks upon seeing the people waiting for them on the other side, causing Ron and Ginny to walk right into them. Both curse in exasperation, giving them a little push. Darcy almost cries.

There’s Lupin, looking up from the watch on his wrist, a smile forming on his face at the sight of Darcy. His hair is pushed back out of his eyes, some color returned to his cheeks. At his side is Emily, shoulder to shoulder with and whispering to Tonks, who has decided to don her usual pink hair for this particular visit. Mad-Eye Moody is there too, a bowler hat pulled low over his magical eye, but doing absolutely nothing to lessen the ominous and threatening presence he carries about him. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are waving as their children and their children's friends come through the barrier, more eager than normal to greet them, it seems. Fred and George are standing on Lupin’s other side in obnoxious green suits—by the looks of it, dragon skin.

“What are you all doing here?” Darcy asks, looking wildly about the platform for Aunt Petunia and Vernon, suddenly very fearful they might be watching on. Emily wraps Darcy in a tight hug, which Darcy returns.

“We were bored,” Emily grins, leading Darcy over to the rest of the small group. “Thought we’d drop by and pay you a visit.”

“Fancy meeting you here, Darcy,” Tonks jokes, a wide smile on her face.

Darcy hugs her, relief surging through her. “Feeling all right? Madam Pomfrey said you’d been released days ago, but it’s good to see you up and walking around.”

Tonks chuckles. “I could say the same for you. You’re walking well.”

“Took my legs long enough.”

Lupin shakes Harry’s hand, turning to Darcy afterwards. She only looks at him, so glad to see him, and yet afraid for him. “You shouldn’t be here,” she says, and Lupin smiles at her. “If Vernon sees you—”

“You think I’m afraid of that old chuffer?” Lupin scoffs, nodding with his head a little ways across the platform, where Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley are huddled. Vernon spots them easily enough, his face purple with rage as he watches Lupin speak with Darcy. “That’s one of the reasons why we’re here. We’ve decided it’s time to have a quick chat with them before you go home with them for the summer.”

Darcy pales, grabbing at his sleeve to keep him from going anywhere. “Are you trying to get me killed?” she hisses. “You know what he did to me after seeing pictures and letters, and now you’re just going to waltz up to him?”

“Darcy,” comes a voice from Darcy’s right. Mr. Weasley interrupts before Lupin can protest, hugging her tight and looking her up and down very critically. “You all right?”

“Yes.”

“All right.” He touches her shoulders, looking too seriously at Lupin. “You ready? Moody’s getting restless.”

“Come here, love,” Lupin says with another smile, placing a hand on the small of her back and pulling her to his side. Emily and Tonks turn to Harry, but Harry follows Darcy curiously. “You’re going to be all right. If he lays a hand on you, we’ll make sure he’s left without a hand to do it again.”

“Remus . . .” Darcy whines as he pushes her along in Mad-Eye, Mr. Weasley, and Tonks’ wake towards the Dursleys. “ _Please_ don’t do this . . . if you care anything about my wellbeing, please—”

“I do care very much for your wellbeing, and that’s why this must be done.” Lupin leaves her side to step up in front of everyone, and with a polite smile, extends his hand to Aunt Petunia. Darcy watches on in horror as Vernon surveys Lupin, tiny eyes traveling from Lupin’s shaggy hair to the patched jacket hanging loosely around his frame. “Mrs. Dursley. Petunia. Remus Lupin. We’ve met, I believe, at your sister’s house when we were around Harry’s age.”

Petunia holds her hands to her chest, eyes fixed upon Lupin’s outstretched hand. He shows no sign of backing down, only raises his eyebrows expectantly. Dudley shrinks behind her and Darcy closes her eyes, humiliated, Harry at her side watching on with wide eyes.

“I remember,” Aunt Petunia says meekly, still holding hands as far away from Lupin’s as possible.

“It’s usually the polite thing to do to shake somebody’s hand,” Tonks says quickly, and Aunt Petunia recoils upon seeing her pink hair. “Shake his hand, Mrs. Dursley.”

Aunt Petunia exchanges a sideways look with her husband. The well-worn vein in Vernon’s temple is pulsing angrily, his face turning more purple by the second. Finally, Aunt Petunia reaches out and touches Lupin’s hand for maybe a second before retracting her own hand again.

“Right,” Lupin continues, the same polite smile still on his face, but his eyes flashing dangerously when he looks at Vernon.

“You have some nerve, son,” Vernon growls, stepping closer to Lupin, his round stomach nearly touching the lapels of Lupin’s jacket. “To stride up here after what you did to that girl.”

“Oh?” Lupin cocks his head, the smile fading from his face. He leans in closer to Vernon, making his face purple even more. “And what exactly did I do to Darcy?”

Vernon bristles. Speaking in the same low growl, he answers, “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Ah, the pictures. Yes, she told me about that.” Darcy hates herself for catching herself looking Lupin up and down, slightly turned on. Lupin clears his throat, straightening up, a good head taller than Vernon. “Tell me—in all those pictures that you saw, was her face black and blue in any of them?”

The color instantly drains from Aunt Petunia’s face and Vernon stammers stupidly for a moment, looking at Mad-Eye, Mr. Weasley, and Tonks, breathing rather heavily. “What is the meaning of this?” he snaps.

“Listen here, Dursley,” Mad-Eye retorts. “Potter was hardly recognizable when we came to fetch her and her brother—”

“You were the ones that kidnapped them!” Vernon pants, sweat forming at his hairline.

Mr. Weasley frowns, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Kidnapped is a strong word. Darcy, did they take you against your will?”

Darcy’s mouth feels very dry. “No.”

“Did they force you to do anything?”

“No.”

“That doesn’t sound like kidnap to me.” Mr. Weasley shrugs, turning his head slightly to give Darcy a reassuring half-smile.

“That’s not the point,” Tonks says again, folding her arms over her chest. “If we find out you’ve been horrible to Darcy or Harry—”

“—and we will hear about it,” Lupin supplies, smiling politely again. “I will personally see to it that you are never able to lay a hand on either of them again.”

“And he won’t be alone,” Tonks finishes, stepping closer to Vernon, making Aunt Petunia step backwards.

“You’ll have all of us to answer to,” Mr. Weasley adds, almost cheerfully, his polite demeanor somehow more intimidating than it should be.

Vernon puffs out his chest, the buttons on his shirt under serious strain. “Are you threatening me, son?” he snarls in Lupin’s face.

Lupin doesn’t miss a beat, nor does his smile falter. “Very much so. Glad to see you’re catching on.”

“Do I look like a man who can be intimidated?” Vernon asks through gritted teeth.

“Well . . .” Mad-Eye casually reaches for his hat, pushing it out of his face to reveal the magical eye in his socket. It spins nauseatingly fast and Vernon stumbles backwards—a very normal reaction for anyone, Darcy thinks, but extremely funny when Vernon does it. “Yes, I think you do.”

When Vernon cannot finish a coherent sentence, Lupin turns away and ushers Darcy a few feet away so as not to be overhead. “I’ve told Harry already, but if we don’t hear from you for three days in a row, we’ll check in. Arthur and Molly are going to try and have you as soon as they can.”

“Okay.” Darcy glances back at Vernon, Dudley, and Aunt Petunia. Vernon is fuming in a dignified silence, his wife and child cowering next to him. She wants to thank him for being here, but can’t quite find the exact words to express her love and gratefulness towards him. “Do you think . . . maybe I could come visit you this summer? Just a day . . . or, I don’t know . . .”

Lupin smiles. “I think we could arrange something. I’d like that very much.”

Darcy smiles, too, in spite of herself. She feels her cheeks burn with embarrassment and looks down at her feet. “I’ll write to you, then.”

“I hope you do.” Lupin smooths her hair back and kisses her forehead. “I’ll see you soon, kitten. Just be patient, all right? The wait won’t be nearly as long as last summer.”

On a whim, Darcy grabs the front of his shirt, desperate. He takes her hands in his and kisses her knuckles. “Please don’t leave us there.”

“Be patient. I promise you, Darcy, you won’t be there long. Go say good-bye to your friends now, all right? I’ll see you soon.” His thumbs brush lovingly over her knuckles and Darcy feels the tears welling up in her eyes, blurring her vision. She tries to stop them from falling, but to no avail. Lupin chuckles, which amazes her, considering about a week ago now, he didn’t look at all like he remembered how to even smile. He squeezes her wrists tighter as she tries to pull away. “Darcy, why are you crying?”

Darcy sniffles. “I’m just so happy to see you,” she admits, blushing. “All of you.”

Lupin looks touched, looking down into Darcy’s face fondly. “That’s no reason to cry, my love. Here . . . what have you done?” He laughs again, wiping Darcy tears with his thumbs, holding her face in his warm hands, coercing her to look into his face. His eyes dart over to where the Dursleys still stand, watching them. “I’m serious. If they hurt you at all, write me right away and I’ll kick down the door the next day.”

It’s a joke, and Darcy knows it, but she wraps her arms suddenly around his neck, rubbing the tip of her nose against his warm neck before burying her face in his skin. Lupin holds her for a moment. “Promise me I’ll see you soon.”

Lupin nuzzles against her hair. “I promise.” And then, after a moment—“Darcy, I hate to cut this short because I am so enjoying myself, but Emily’s been waiting very patiently to say good-bye to you . . .”

“Don’t mind me! I’m only her oldest friend!” Emily says exasperatedly, but when Darcy turns, it’s to find her smiling.

Darcy releases Lupin. “Thank you.”

Lupin shrugs casually, sticking his hands deep into his pockets, looking pleased with himself. “Anytime.”

* * *

“ _Ooh_ , I’m telling your mummy,” Darcy croons, shutting the glass-paneled doors behind her and creeping up on Dudley’s massive form. In the night, he looks like a round shadow, only recognizable by his blond hair. He turns quickly, a scowl on his face, and a crudely rolled cigarette between his thick fingers.

“Better not. What do you want?” he asks gruffly, in a good imitation of his father.

“Same reason you are, you little brat. I need a cigarette and I didn’t feel like smoking out my window.” It’s a lie. The nightmares had woken her, and she can still feel the tingling in her arm, having dreamt of Bellatrix on the floor of the Atrium, fighting the excruciating pain Darcy had caused her. Darcy lets the night breeze wash over her and cannot deny how good it feels. The moon is near full tonight, and she thinks of Lupin, wondering if he’s feeling lonely, wondering if he’s feeling the breeze and watching the moon with her. When Dudley narrows his eyes at her in suspicion, Darcy takes out the pack of cigarettes sticking out of her bra and gives it a shake with her eyebrows raised. “Do you even know how to smoke a cigarette? Or do you think it just makes you look cool?”

Dudley watches her for a moment, sitting down slowly on one of Aunt Petunia’s lawn chairs, his eyes following her hand when she lights her cigarette. “Who were those people at the platform?”

“What?” Darcy laughs shortly, taking a long drag of her cigarette and sitting on the lawn chair opposite her cousin. “What do you care who those people are?”

“That man’s eye—”

“Were you scared, Dudders?” Darcy asks, frowning. She knows better than to pick a fight with Dudley, who has easily won many wrestling and boxing matches in the past with her, especially when he began to grow like a weed to surpass her height and weight long before Harry was halfway there. But it feels good to pick a fight with someone, especially Dudley. “Your daddy sure was, wasn’t he? Jumped about a foot when he saw his eye.”

“I wasn’t scared.” Dudley puffs on his cigarette.

“Who gave you that cigarette?” Darcy asks, one leg crossed over the other, her elbow digging into her thigh, burning cigarette set between his fingers. She doesn’t know why she suddenly feels sorry for Dudley.

“Piers. He rolls his own. Says it saves him money.”

“Do you want a real one?” Dudley looks at her warily, as if expecting this to be a trap. Darcy holds out her pack, giving it another shake, expecting him to reach for it. “Well, go on. Take one. They’re not magic cigarettes.”

She’s said the word knowingly, smiling when Dudley flinches. Darcy sighs, pulling out a cigarette for him and tossing it into his lap. Dudley looks down at it as if it’s a poisonous snake preparing to bite.

“Come on, Dudders. You afraid of a word?” Darcy continues, trying to look as casual as possible, putting her own cigarette to her lips. “You’re braver than your daddy is, I know it. He wouldn’t have lasted a second in the presence of a couple of dementors.”

Dudley’s face turns green in the moonlight at the thought. “And where’s your daddy?” he spits, making Darcy tense. She tries not to lose her temper—the question is relatively fair, considering she’s been insulting Vernon.

“My daddy’s dead,” she says coolly, and she can see that her calm demeanor makes Dudley uneasy. Darcy takes a long pull off her cigarette again. “He died trying to save me. Would your daddy do the same for you?”

Darcy sits back on the chair, pulling her knees to her chest, one arm behind her head. She sees blinking red lights in the sky that mean an airplane is flying by (wouldn’t it be something to be on an airplane?), and the sky is littered with stars. The brightest one, blinking at her, mocking her, the one they call Sirius. Maybe the airplane would take her there. Maybe she’d never come back.

“—I’m talking to you,” Dudley hisses, and the flicking of a lighter brings her back to reality. Darcy looks at him, her brow furrowed. “What’s so interesting up there, anyway? Or is dad right about you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“He thinks you’re messed up in the head.” Dudley seems pleased by this, shifting his large bottom in the chair, threatening to break it in half with his weight. “Like, slow or something.”

Darcy scoffs. “And you believe that? You believe every little thing your daddy tells you about me?”

“No.”

Darcy blinks in surprise. “You don’t?”

“No. I don’t think you’re a slag like dad says. I don’t think you’re crazy like dad says.”

“Oh.” She racks her brain trying to remember the last time Dudley’s said something relatively kind to her. “Thanks, Dudley.” Darcy puts her cigarette out and watches him dutifully avoid looking her in the face. “Dudley, can I ask you something? Before the moment’s over? And afterwards, we can go back to hating each other.”

“I guess.”

She wonders how insensitive the question is, but her curiosity is so strong. “What did the dementors make you see?”

Dudley clutches his stomach as if he’s going to be sick. “Why? So you can make fun of me with your stupid brother?”

“Fucking hell . . . look, Dudley, I won’t make fun of you. Not for this. Anything you say now stays here, in this garden, between us. Can you just stop hating me for five minutes and just tell me?”

He mumbles something Darcy doesn’t catch.

“What?”

“I said,” he says loudly, turning his head to glance at her. He lowers his voice again. “I don’t hate you.”

Darcy starts to laugh, but Dudley doesn’t join in with her. “You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?”

“I—I’ve always admired you, Darcy.”

She laughs softly again before the smile slowly fades from her face. Hearing her name roll off his lips is still very foreign to her, and slightly awkward. But the sentiment touches her, more than she can say, especially coming from this boy who Darcy has spent more than half her life resenting openly. Despite all she’s said and done to him (moreso _said_ to him), Dudley is here with her now, confessing his feelings like this is some fucking therapy session.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispers, her heart racing.

Dudley shrugs, clearing his throat. “I didn’t want you to know that I liked you.”

“All right.” Darcy gets to her feet, holding out her hand to him. She’s too exhausted to hate anyone more than she has to, to be angrier than she has to be. “I’ll stop taking the piss if you do.”

“This doesn’t make us friends. And if I find out you’ve told anyone, I’ll . . . I’ll tell mum you smoke cigarettes.”

Darcy shrugs. “I’ll tell your mum that _you_ smoke cigarettes.”

Dudley exhales through his nose, grasping Darcy’s hand reluctantly and shaking. “Like I said, this doesn’t make us friends.”

“I heard you the first time. Now scram, Dudders. I want to smoke one last cigarette in peace.”

* * *

“Were you and Dudley outside talking last night?”

“What makes you think that?” Darcy grunts, pulling up a particularly nasty bit of weed that’s snaked its way into the garden. Her forearms and the back of her neck are already stinging painfully with sunburn, and she tosses the weed to her side, where a pile of previously plucked weeds resides.

“I heard you talking. My window was open last night.”

Darcy doesn’t falter. “Caught him smoking cigarettes out there.”

“What were you doing out there at two in the morning?”

“What is this? Twenty questions?” Darcy asks brusquely, looking over her shoulder at Harry. His hair is damp with sweat from the hot sun beating on him, but he holds two ice cold glasses of lemonade in his hands—one for himself and one for Darcy. “I woke up and needed a cigarette and then I went back to bed.”

“What did he say?” Harry asks.

“Harry . . .” Darcy says in a warning tone, her back to him. “Would you just leave it?”

“What could be so important that you won’t tell me?” Harry snaps. “It’s only Dudley.”

Darcy rubs her temples, pressing her dirt-covered fingers hard into her skin. She inhales deeply, knowing that Harry is undeserving of her anger, but feeling ready to explode anyway. “What do you think of me possibly visiting Remus and Emily for a little bit soon? Obviously not at the same time . . .”

“You don’t need my permission.” Harry kneels beside Darcy, placing the tall lemonade glasses down in the grass, where they balance precariously. “Vernon hasn’t hit you, has he?”

“Not yet,” Darcy says, wrapping another weed around her fingers and giving it a sharp tug. “Still waiting for the day he sneaks into my room while I’m sleeping and suffocates me with my pillow.”

“That’s not funny,” Harry replies. Darcy points to a few places that need weeded, and Harry gets to work, much slower and clumsier and out of practice than Darcy. “I heard you talking in your sleep last night.”

“A common occurrence. And what was I saying?” Darcy tries not to give herself away. She doesn’t want to admit to Harry that she’d dreamed of torturing Bellatrix again, mainly because she isn’t sure that it’s such a nightmare. The idea of Sirius’ murderer writhing on the ground is, sometimes, a rather pleasant scene.

“I don’t know,” Harry confesses. “What did you dream of?”

“Been dreaming of mum and dad again.” It’s not the whole truth, but it’s not completely a lie. Darcy doesn’t want to bring up Sirius to Harry, who hasn’t seemed at all ready to talk about him. Darcy isn’t sure she’s very ready, either. But she has been dreaming of that night in vivid detail, just like she used to, always waking up drenched in sweat and feeling terrified and near tears. “Aunt Petunia said she’d get me something to help me sleep. I guess I’m waking her at night.”

“You think it’ll help?”

“Dunno. I’m not going to use them. I’m going to keep messing up their sleep schedule as long as I can.”

“Feeling vindictive? Or just channeling your inner Snape?” Harry’s stopped weeding, sipping at his drink and watching Darcy trim the blooming flowers, feeding them with cold water from the watering can.

Darcy smiles at Harry, raising her eyebrows. “Maybe both.”

“Do you want to come back to Hogwarts?”

Darcy pauses, lowering the watering can and accepting her lemonade from Harry. “Of course,” she says. “Where else would I go, anyway?” She ruffles his dark, untidy hair. “I want to be with you. Us Potters have to stick together.”

Harry examines her face carefully, as if he can tell her smile is false. Thankfully, he doesn’t get a chance to answer as the sounds of spokes begin to get nearer, the unending tick-tick-ticking of a bicycle flying down the street. Darcy sighs, getting to her feet and emptying the watering can into the garden bed, draining her lemonade, eyes on the street to see which one of Dudley’s bullying friends are coming to collect him today.

To Darcy’s surprise, it’s not one of Dudley’s friends. The ticking bicycle belongs to a handsome boy a few years older than Darcy. Last summer, there had been times where she felt no more than a child with Gavin, but now she feels older—even older than him—and she’s pleased that as his figure becomes clearer, she doesn’t feel much like blushing or kissing him. Gavin’s golden hair is blown back in the summer breeze, a well-maintained beard on his face, darker than the hair on his head. His shorts stop above his knee, revealing very muscular calves that take the bicycle further down the road.

Darcy and Harry watch him, all by his lonesome, slowly turning his head to look at Number Four. Darcy swallows loudly as Gavin slows down in the middle of the deserted street, just in front of their house, one leg propping him and his bike up like a kickstand. He holds a hand up in greeting, slowly lowering it. From what Darcy can see of his face, he looks deep in concentration, as if trying to remember something he’s forgotten. He touches his own cheekbone, finally gripping the handles of his bicycle again before nodding politely and riding off again—tick-tick-tick-tick-tick—until out of sight.

Darcy watches him go until she can no longer hear or see him, and then she watches the place he’d disappeared down a small hill. Last summer seems a lifetime ago, as if she’s been torn from that life completely, as if it wasn’t even her life then. Last summer, she and Lupin had been on awkward and shaky terms after a sad break in their relationship, Darcy had gone to a garden party and enjoyed it, she’d ridden a bicycle again for the first time in nearly ten years, Vernon had beat her black and blue . . . Sirius had been alive . . . had that life really only taken place last summer?

Harry’s head is turned to the side, looking up at her. “All right?” he asks softly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Darcy sighs, looking back down at Harry. She smiles, taking his hand and squeezing once. “No,” she says, in a much gentler voice than even she’d expected. “But I think I will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another story comes to a close. The word count on this one makes me feel real good, not gonna lie.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read this and gave me any kind of feedback! The next story I have outlined, but there are a few things I’m looking to tweak, so don’t expect an extraordinarily long wait. 
> 
> If you want to be friends or want to talk or want to stalk each other without ever speaking, you can follow me on tumblr at rcgulus-bllack 💘💘💘


End file.
